Going off the Record
by aphelion-orion
Summary: "You always knew that there was something not right with the world, some deep-seated wrongness just waiting to be exposed." —Ky, Sol, and a world that is rapidly coming apart at the seams. Post-GGX, including cameos, conspiracies, and, at some point, killer robots.—
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Going off the Record  
**Part:** 1/?  
**Fandom:** Guilty Gear  
**Characters: **Ky, Sol, and some cameos  
**Rating:** G, for now (rating may go up)  
**Warnings:** Alternate Timeline, beginning around GGX.  
**Notes:** Although some portions of the story will feature OCs due to necessity, rest assured that this is very much a story about Ky (and Sol).

**Summary:** This fic grabs canon by the throat and shakes it until all the shiny things come tumbling out. Including Sin. Somewhere along the line, the world gets saved. Go figure.

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**Going off the Record**  
_Chapter I_

_.  
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"What'd you like, sir?"

The question was spoken in heavily accented French, the dark-skinned vendor bending forward to smile at him in the manner of someone who had served a hundred confused locals already and would serve several hundred more before the day was over. Behind him, a young girl was flitting back and forth in front of a stove, checking pots, jostling pans, a colorful mass of grain and vegetables leaping up in the air whenever she did so, and neatly landing back in the pan without spilling a morsel. The food smelled like nothing he had ever smelled before, unidentified ingredients and spices blending into something both alien and appetizing.

It had lured him here, away from his rat run to the German sausage stand he'd so carefully mapped out before the masses had come flooding in, but in the face of the foreign pâtés, the bowls full of slices of meat glistening with strange sauces, and the piles of downright odd-looking pastry, Andreyev found himself wishing he'd just stuck to something steadfastly European. At least there, he had a fair chance of knowing what it was called, not to mention what was in it.

"Poison is bad for business," the man behind the counter chortled, though from his tone, he'd likely said that several dozen times before, too.

Andreyev flushed, fumbling with an awkward bow. "My apologies. I didn't mean to—"

"Ah, ah, say no more. When I first come here, I think they want to kill me. So much pork. With sour weeds." He shook his head in an exaggerated manner. "Now I say, who care. Different tongues, all same hunger. Here." Grabbing a spatula, he started loosening slices of a pâté stuck to its baking tray. "I will choose for you. Nothing too strange, but for a working man."

Andreyev nodded, handing over the choice with some relief. At least it would spare him having to ask ignorant questions. "Two portions, please. And, um. If you have anything sweet..."

"We invent sweet, my friend," the vendor said, shaking out another bag and starting to swipe a variety of small pastries inside. "Makrouth," he announced, before moving onto another basket containing square, green-speckled cakes. "And baklawa."

"Thank you very much," Andreyev said, counting out the coins and accepting the bags.

"Think nothing of it. Enjoy!" The vendor waved, before turning to the next person staring agog at the display.

Deprived of his place in line at the stall, the throng immediately closed in on him, and Andreyev could do little more than clutch the bags to his chest with one arm to keep them from being squashed. All around, people were pushing past each other, weaving through and across the street from stall to stall, eager to see what the world outside their own small sphere had to offer. The sun was glinting off a multitude of decorations, tinsel and streamers flashing their colors into the crowd, hoping to attract the curious and adventurous to their goods. Whoever hadn't had the money for a proper flag or guild sign was making do with scarves or slips of painted paper; some had even taken things a step further and added bells or cymbals to their repertoire, the music scattering across the blur of human voices. Sometimes, the cheery tune of a flute was mixing with the music from a street performance, artists or just wannabes taking up whichever corner wasn't occupied by a booth, juggling, dancing, or performing some other mind-boggling feat.

The food stalls didn't even need to advertise themselves, the aroma of roasting meat and grapes bursting open in the late May warmth mingling with the smell of melting confectionary and some of the more exotic scents— flowers and spices Andreyev had never seen or smelled in his life, and, or so it seemed, neither had thousands of other people.

That, at least, made him feel a little better about stumbling around wide-eyed and confused. All of Europe had been his home for the duration of the war, since growing attached to a specific place would have been foolish. He'd traveled it up, down and across more times than he cared to count, but in spite of that, the world suddenly felt so much larger without the frontlines closing in, without the ever-present threat of annihilation. Now, roads were opening up to places everyone had thought lost or destroyed, oceans revealing bastions of human life on their distant shores that no one had known existed.

It was reflected in the way people went about this festival, just bringing whatever they deemed of interest, just intent on taking in as much of the world as they could. No matter where he'd gone, or when, he'd never felt this kind of thrum, an excitement running through the crowd that made them all seem like children, eager and fascinated with anything that was placed in front of their eyes. In the war, celebrations had always carried a sense of desperation underneath the fleeting triumph, some underlying sense of doom boiling right beneath the exultations, waiting to spill over.

Even the victory celebration, for all its pomp and grandeur, hadn't been like this, certainly hadn't started like this, with people not knowing whether to laugh or cry or just start screaming in sheer relief. Most had opted to get drunk instead, and in a nice, bizarre little twist, it hadn't been until the higher-ups had shaken off their hangovers or stupor and wheeled out the podiums for their speeches that the world noticed its savior had gone missing.

Or, as Andreyev had known him, quietly packed his belongings and slipped out the back door for places unknown.

At least, that was how he'd imagined it at the time.

He hadn't know, after all, hadn't spoken to Sir Kiske about much of relevance, bouncing too hard between shock and exhilaration to think anything at all. The entire world had been tossed off a cliff and was free-falling, and so it was easier to plunge headlong into the festivities, shedding things like plans and rationale and tactics, and just let himself be pulled along by the dizzying torrent. Of course, by the time he and the rest of the army were once again ready to take on any task their Commander might appoint, said Commander had vanished, his room cleared out and no trace of his person to be found anywhere around headquarters.

Later, Andreyev would hear it referred to as the death blow for the Order, the end of an era, and other, similarly cataclysmic descriptions, when all it had been, really, was the inevitable. Someone like the Commander would see little use in a peacetime army. It wasn't at all hard to understand why he'd leave, even less so once Andreyev started listening a little, picking up on the rumors flitting around hallway corners, talks of pre-planned secular and spiritual honors trickling down the ranks the more time passed.

Most soldiers understood, at least those who had served directly under the Commander, those who grinned and shook their heads at the stories making the rounds, ideas that got ever more ludicrous the more time passed – maybe Ky Kiske was going to return as king of some foreign nation? Maybe he hadn't even been real, but the incarnation of the Holy Ghost, descended to lead humanity to victory?

The Holy Ghost, it seemed, preferred stable working hours and life away from the spotlight, since the next time Andreyev heard anything regarding the Commander, he'd joined the ranks of a ragtag and rather disorganized affair with grand aspirations of championing the cause of justice and peace in the world.

If anything, this particular piece of news only hastened the collapse of the Order, or what was left of it, soldiers rushing to join their Commander on a different kind of battlefield.

Andreyev was one of the last to follow, not out of hesitance or disloyalty, but simply because he was certain the Commander wouldn't have wished for it. He'd been everyone's reason to join the Order, and now he was their reason to join what would become the international police, driven by the same idolism and fierce devotion he'd inspired during the war. Andreyev had never talked to him about it, but he'd been there when they'd hailed a fifteen-year-old boy the messiah, and later, he'd learned to look for the change in Sir Kiske's expression, the small shift of his jaw that suggested something inside was clenching tightly whenever someone invoked the moniker. People had died for him, and people had lived for him, and Andreyev thought that maybe, at the dawn of a new world, he'd want people to live for themselves.

So he'd tried. Took to wandering, drifting from place to place with no real purpose in mind, just trying to feel the peace, breathing it in. Like most soldiers, he'd never thought about an end to the fighting, about a future apart from surviving the next day, because there was little sense in nurturing any other wishes, only insanity. He ended up collecting jobs and lifestyles the way other people collect stray buttons in a box – working in a forge, at a communal construction site, by some odd turn of fate, he'd even gone from farmhand to accountant once. He held no job for more than a few weeks, driven by an unrest he couldn't explain, and it wasn't until he'd wandered as far as Paris and seen the police banners waving from the gates of the palais du Luxembourg that he finally knew the reason.

He really wasn't any different from everyone else.

Andreyev had felt like a contrite schoolboy, sitting in the Commander's office and mumbling his way through an excuse that he was sure was all too transparent, something about always having been too much of a soldier.

"They're starting to call it the Kiske convent," the Commander had said, lips quirking into a smile that was partly rueful and partly amused.

"I'm prepared to take the vows, sir," Andreyev had nodded solemnly, and apparently that had been the right thing to say, because amusement won out, the Commander chuckling a little as he put his seal on the paper spelling out Andreyev's contentment.

It might have made him no more mature than a star-struck cadet, but he felt better returning to what he'd come to think of as his accustomed place at the Commander's side. He'd wanted to do something worthwhile, he realized, and while there were many things to do in a world struggling to rebuild, few were as worthwhile as staying at the side of the man who had made it all possible. The police wasn't the army, of course, but it was hard to let go of old habits, to stop looking out for the Commander's well-being. Sometimes, the old title slipped out in casual conversation, but the Commander took it with grace, himself unable to shake off what had so long been second nature to them all – the sword always at his side, his eyes always sweeping an unfamiliar room for potential escape routes.

Even in a changing world, some things just didn't budge easily, and some things refused to change at all.

Like the instigators of this event, as calling them organizers would have been giving them too much credit.

Cynicism almost seemed out of place in the middle of this joyful crowd, on such a bright, expectant day, but it was a day that called all IPF officers to post, standing at the beck and call of politicians like peace had never come. The World Fair might have been a cause for celebration for the common people, but, Andreyev thought bitterly, he was getting to see the flipside, too, one he would have much preferred not to exist. It was the side that'd had the Commander up before the crack of dawn for several weeks running now, planning, coordinating, being forced to start all over again when some new whimsy collapsed all his security measures. The side that forced him to skip meals so he could act as a buffer instead, placating pompous delegates and trying to ensure their safety while they were boasting about advancements and feats of reconstructive effort to each other.

Shaking his head, Andreyev took the next exit, a small gap between the stalls that led him away from the press of bodies and into the tiny alley at the back of the stalls, used by the vendors and suppliers. He had to edge through sideways, dodging barrels of live seafood and crates, but it still made for much faster progress. Nobody remarked on him clambering over their goods, the blue cloak with the lily emblem enough to grant him unhindered passage.

It wasn't his right to be gloomy about the entire farce, when the burden wasn't even resting on his shoulders. In fact, he was quite sure the Commander had purposely sent him away for a break, was certainly not expecting him to go out on a simple food run, but it didn't feel right to just take advantage of his kindness and leave him there among the snarl of tension coiling at the center of the Place de l'Etoile. It was the kind of tension that was waiting for something to burst, and Andreyev much preferred to be of service to the Commander when it did.

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-TBC-

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**A/N:** So this is it. The first part of the ominous "reboot." For anyone who wasn't subjected to my talking about it, it's a massive project to draw Sin into a GGX-based timeline, because we all know Overture doesn't make a lick of sense. Thanks go to Tofu for playing the part of beta reader. C&C is most welcome.

Now for stuff nobody cares about:  
- Yes, the Andreyev from _Three Degrees_. I'm not above reusing OCs, and he makes for such a wonderful mother hen.  
- I've seen the emblem on the police cloak rendered in a variety of different ways, sometimes as a rose, sometimes as a cross. Meh, whatever. Can't be as pretty as a fleur-de-lis. :P


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Going off the Record  
**Part:** 2/?  
**Fandom:** Guilty Gear  
**Characters: **Ky, Sol, and some cameos  
**Rating:** G, for now (rating may go up)  
**Warnings:** Alternate Timeline, beginning around GGX.  
**Summary:** This fic grabs canon by the throat and shakes it until all the shiny things come tumbling out. Including Sin. Somewhere along the line, the world gets saved. Go figure.

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**Going off the Record**  
_Chapter II_

_._

_.  
_

One of the first things Kliff had taught him was the perfect poker face.

Most people tended to have recognizable tics, little idiosyncrasies that gave them away, a certain deliberate aloofness or neutrality, but Kliff knew about the value of an honest face, and, or so he said, there was no need to do away with Ky's guileless gaze, just room for improvement. It helped that he was young, young enough to still invoke notions of childhood and naïveté without any necessary pretense, and over the years, it had allowed him to see and hear things people were usually inclined to keep to themselves, to nod agreeably when in reality he wanted the ballroom chandelier to drop on whoever he was speaking to, to smile confidently even when he wasn't feeling confident at all, because someone, worried or scared or dying, needed him to.

With time, Ky had developed the reputation of being too honest, too straight-laced and easy to read, and it helped to maintain the by then effortless guise. It had certainly helped him all the way through the morning reception, shaking hands, accepting laudations, and repeatedly hearing, again, what a shame it was that he'd opted for such an — here, there was always a deliberate pause — unusual career, otherwise he could consider the prime minister of lower Spain his colleague, or — and this was usually accompanied by an over-excited titter — boss the Vatican's delegation around, wink wink, nudge nudge.

Still, he was grateful by the time all the researchers and politicians had been herded towards the stage, taking their seats under the waiting canopies. For one, it gave them something else to focus on, and for another, it was much easier to keep track when they weren't constantly flitting about. It was hard enough to prevent them from leaping at each other's throats, boasting and unsubtly insulting whoever it was they happened to be talking to, that it was entirely too much to hope they'd left plots or rabid sympathizers at home. The speeches gave the entire competition a sense of order, and him the small comfort of the humming generators mounted on the edge of the stage, keeping an invisible barrier going that could easily withstand a medium explosion.

Some of the R&D staff had happily pilfered them from the Order storage when they left for the IPF, claiming with a certain amount of smug satisfaction that the devices would only end up mothballed or sold, anyway, and wouldn't he like to give them a good home?

They were neither the first nor the last to take a risk like that, swiping records or maps, taking a horse that might as well have been their personal mount anyway, for all man and beast had been through together. These things were precious, too precious to stay in any one person's keeping, stuffed away in some private library or secret shed. For Ky, there was little sense in doing anything but accepting the gifts, stolen though they were, grateful that the soldiers at least weren't doing it entirely in his name. There was a fair amount of schadenfreude, too, resentment at having a lifetime of servitude betrayed, and though Ky had left, he'd always kept an eye out, had heard the closed-door whispers that spoke of turning the waning Order into a private army. Private for whom, they never said, but they hadn't been nearly as quiet about it as they'd hoped, for all the offense the soldiers took at the thought of being sold, part and parcel, to some nameless bidder.

There were no questions as to where the supplies were going, partly because it was his reputation at work again — surely, strict and pious Sir Kiske would never condone such a blow to the organization he'd devoted his life to — and partly because most of the brass were too shell-shocked at having the army crumbling into dust right before their eyes to notice, truly notice, its dwindling inventory. Now, nobody thought to ask about the field generators, serving their purpose once more in a slightly different manner by shielding humans from humans instead of Gears.

Sol, he thought, would have appreciated the irony.

The presentations themselves were as broad as their goal — ringing in a new age for humanity. Vaccines, transport networks, an experimental refining process for float stones. An experimental airship design to go with it, said to achieve twice the speed of normal models. A Gear farming project from northern Calabria that was met with much scorn and derision, as if half the populace wasn't learning to live off the Gears in one way or another, the earth burnt so badly in places that there was simply nothing else left. From his vantage point at the sidelines, Ky could see two IPF officers stiffening, gritting their teeth as the presenter was eventually forced off the stage under the hail of accusations, heresy and satanism and all the other good things. They'd all been there at some point, turning to the slain Gears because the supply lines had broken down, and it was either that or starvation.

The atmosphere was doing a good job of making him restless, too, more so than any stiff, upper-crust banquet he'd had to attend in his life. It had him looking forward to his patrol shift, where he could at least walk off the tension collecting between his shoulder blades and winding down his spine. Ky couldn't even say what it was, as he'd long since learned to shrug off the intolerance that liked to drift around the kinds of circles that could afford to harbor it. Maybe it was the way the competition had changed from the war, where everyone had been too busy staying alive, some more than others, where so much had been based on luck alone, sink or swim, nations splintering, borders shrinking by the day. Absurdly enough, the fear and reluctance to band together had been easier to understand than this, the new struggle that had gripped half of Europe, countries engaged in a race for the top, determined to have an edge over others at all costs.

_Dick-measuring contest_, an all too familiar voice in the back of his mind supplied, causing him to choke on his breath.

"Sir!"

"Fine," he managed amidst coughs, waving dismissively at the guard who had frozen next to him, staring at him with concern. "I'm fine, Corporal. Just..."

_Just being tripped up by the voices in my head_, wasn't exactly something he could say to the man's worried face, at least not without sounding thoroughly insane. He wasn't even sure when his mind had first begun providing the unruly commentary, just that it had started doing so years ago, in one boring round of negotiations or another, when the actual commentator didn't avail himself for disruptions and cynical observations. It hadn't happened in a while, but then again, he'd been busy and not especially involved in the kinds of tasks that warranted the voice to make itself known.

"Sir?"

"It's nothing, please don't worry about it." He smiled, got the man's tentative smile in return, and eventually, he turned his attention back to the audience.

By now, they were on the second project involving the construction of reservoirs and, or so the head scientist advertised, 'clean water for a whole country.' Sol once said that listening to scientists talk about their inventions was actually watching them masturbate to a mental three-way between themselves, their own brilliance, and whatever it was they'd come up with after a night of stale coffee and spreadsheets. Ky couldn't remember what he'd said in response, whether he'd frowned, rolled his eyes or surreptitiously sent a spark traveling up Sol's arm because they were in polite company, but crude as it was, he couldn't help the feeling that there was a grain of truth to it. The man on stage certainly seemed a little too enthusiastic for mere marketing talk.

A small glance around confirmed that he was actually one of the few still paying attention, or trying to, his mind more on the surroundings than the talk. Most of the remaining audience were shifting or fiddling with whatever they happened to have at hand, hair or purses or notepads, hoping to shorten the experience in whatever way they could. In the third row, the Prussian delegate was engaged in a round of stealth-knitting, her needles sliding soundlessly through the thread of what appeared to be a pair of children's socks. One of the reporters, who had somehow managed to snatch a seat in the VIP row and had been writing furiously for the first thirty minutes of the presentation, was now doodling stick figures in the margins of his stenography pad while maintaining the same concentrated expression.

"—however, you will find that by using a high-intensity magic particle filter, we are also able to provide one hundred percent clean drinking water for a town of one thousand people with an array of only ten purifiers." At the podium, the scientist finished with a little bow, closing the lid on the hundreds of pale glowing tubes and shutting down the machine. "This concludes the technical side of things. Are there any questions?"

Silence.

After a moment, a woman rose in the rows reserved for the researchers, under the collective glare of several colleagues. "Excuse me, but what happens if the containment field fails?"

Several assistants appeared on stage to re-wrap the machine in its protective tarp, while the man turned to her with a benevolent smile. "My dear..." He paused. "My dear Dr. Neumann. The containment field is generated and stabilized by a power core. Surely you'll remember the theory of perpetual feedback from the elementary course. Crystallized magic _cannot_ fail."

A few snickers from the science row, with the delegates mostly non-plussed, but interested in the first signs of a catfight. The woman glared. "In my experience, dear Dr. Febvrier, 'cannot' does not exist. One should think the cost of installing another core would be easily mitigated by the... great benefit your invention would bring to all of us."

Another hand rose, this time from the delegate side. "Come to think of it, you haven't told us the development costs for this thing. Just how much will it take to install this array you were talking about?"

Apparently, criticism had penetrated the lethargy, because another scientist rose to back up his colleague. "And the particles? I don't think you've specified how this machine will prevent magic from ionizing the water. We don't have cities full of gifted people. This could be a serious health hazard for the rest."

The man coughed, his smile frozen on his face. "I'll gladly answer all your questions at the technical demonstration tomorrow. However, for the moment, I'm afraid our time is up. Thank you for your attention."

The applause he received was distinctly less enthusiastic than he'd expected; half the audience was still trying to wake up from the talk, some straightening in their seats in the manner of people trying to stretch as many muscles as possible without being noticed, others barely making an effort to hide their yawns, while the science faction had smelled blood in the water and was just waiting to pounce.

"Ladies and gentlemen." The announcer had reappeared on stage and was bowing deeply, head bent towards his knees. "This concludes our morning agenda. Please enjoy the refreshments in the adjoining tent, and make sure not to leave any valuables behind. Our afternoon presentations will commence in thirty minutes, that is three o'clock. Thank you."

A rumble went through the rows as several hundred people rose from their seats at the same time, all shuffling towards the buffet, impatiently peering over the shoulders of those further ahead. Some of the police officers were tentatively adopting a more casual stance the more seats emptied, rotating their shoulders and rocking on their feet as the stream of delegates passed out of their area of responsibility. Ky stepped forward, suppressing the urge to tug at the tight clasp of his dress collar, and made to follow after them, when his radio crackled.

"Sir Kiske?"

He pressed the device closer to hear over the noise of the audience. "Speaking."

"Jarre here, from post N-26."

"I hear you, Major."

"We've received a visit from a gentleman, sir. Vicar Conrad, of Cardinal Gregory's staff—" Here, the transmission broke off, an angry pitch chattering indistinctly for a few moments, before the officer's voice returned, strained. "He says they're awaiting the arrival of their research team, but I can't find that team anywhere on the guest list. Not even on the original one. As far as I'm concerned, sir, they never applied for participation. Should I... I mean, the gentleman is quite... insistent, sir."

Ky pressed his lips together, holding back a sigh. "Please tell him to stand by, Major. I'll be with you in a few minutes, then we'll get to the bottom of this. If anyone arrives before I get there, don't let them through."

"Understood, sir."

Rubbing the tension ache from his neck, he walked towards the steps leading up the side of the stage, the hum of the barrier raising the hairs on his skin. A quick check on the output panel showed that the shield generator was working fine, better than it ever had in the war, and he allowed himself to relax slightly. This was one thing that seemed to be holding up today, at least.

Slowly, he let his gaze travel past the stage draperies and spotlights, and further upwards along one of the mighty stone columns, its sweep ending abruptly in mid-air. In a way, it was fitting that meeting should be held in the shadow of the broken Arc, with everything slow to mend and not quite as good as before, and even if no one quite knew what 'before' had been like, it was what they were all striving towards.

Old glory.

Old power.

Beyond that, though, lay the streets packed with celebrating people, their noise a reminder of the things that truly mattered, and Ky allowed himself a moment to close his eyes, listening to the faint, happy thrum of the city.

* * *

"—I keep telling you, they'll be arriving on short notice. On personal invitation! Do you even realize what this means? No, of course you don't. I wouldn't expect a... footman to be skilled in the ways of international diplomacy. Cardinal Gregory is here on behalf of the Pope! The very man you used to serve!"

The vicar's voice was booming as if shouted through a megaphone, bouncing back and forth between the rows formed by the large gray equipment containers. Most of the personnel in the backstage area had stopped unloading and repacking their projects, unable to keep from listening in on the faceless tirade, some even exchanging confused or sympathetic glances with their neighbors when they would have otherwise been jealously guarding their respective inventions.

"Sir, if you please—"

The major's voice was dragged under like a piece of driftwood, the vicar able to drown him out through the force of his echo alone. The amount of righteous indignation was painting a rather vivid picture of any ecclesiastic services he might provide, and Ky quickened his pace to a near-jog, weaving in and out of the labyrinth. "No, no I wouldn't please. This is an affront to His Holiness!"

"Sir, if it were anyone else, we wouldn't be able to make an exception, either. It's—"

"But it isn't 'anyone else.' If I didn't know better, I'd say you're harassing us on purpose."

"Please, Your Grace. I've already sent for Sir Kiske. He's on his way right this minute, I assure you."

"Sir? _Sir_?" The vicar's voice cracked on the last word. "He lost that title when he cast off the Order! I wouldn't expect any loyalty from a traitor, but I'd at least expect some decency."

"With all due respect, but the Commander is—"

"Many are the plans in a man's heart, Your Grace," Ky said smoothly, stepping out and motioning for the officer to stand down. The man immediately dropped his gaze, retreating against the boundary line, visibly grateful to be allowed to leave the difficult guest to his superior. "But it is the Lord's purpose that prevails."

Conrad whipped around mid-pace to stare at him, beads of sweat glistening on his bald head, his face almost as pink as his ornate robes. Ky remembered him distantly; one of the inquisitors, as the soldiers liked to call them with no small amount of disdain, upstart clerics that expanded their influence by acting as administrative bridges between the different Order committees and the army itself. Although they had originally been meant to be mediators, they saw themselves more as messengers, passing on orders from their superiors with little room for consideration or debate. From what he'd heard of him, Conrad had always had a penchant for disrupting the routine, constantly on some witch hunt or another involving unsatisfactory reports or improper conduct among the troops. His erratic, self-important behavior had earned him a fair amount of ridicule, but he had been fully capable of throwing a battalion into chaos by dragging its soldiers to a drumhead trial.

Now, he took a moment, sizing Ky up as well as his diminutive stature would allow. "Indeed, _Captain_ Kiske. I doubt, though, that His purpose for you is to keep me waiting."

"Indeed not," Ky agreed. "And I apologize if this was the impression. Now then, if you would tell me the origin of the research team or the applicant's name, I will check again. Perhaps they were simply lost."

"That won't be necessary, Captain." The vicar had crossed his arms behind his back and was shifting from foot to foot, as if trying to channel his temper into the ground. "You won't find them on the list because they are not _on_ the list. I believe I told as much to your subordinate."

"Then I'm afraid you will have to understand that Major Jarre was correct in refusing your request," Ky said, frowning inwardly. "We cannot allow anyone to enter freely and move about however they please."

"You fancy yourself our prison warden, then, Kiske?"

"Your Grace, please do not twist my words," Ky said, allowing just a hint of steel to slip into his tone. The pretend-offense was the oldest trick in the book, and while the vicar's choleric outburst from five minutes ago might have been genuine, he could now sense the intent behind his words. Whatever he was trying to achieve, he was seeking to avoid putting his cards on the table. "We are responsible for the safety of several hundred important men and women today, including His Excellency and yourself, and I am sure you are well aware that this event has not inspired positive feelings in certain circles."

Conrad's eyes had narrowed into slits, pretend-offense blending once again into honest anger. "Are you accusing me...?"

"Far be it from me to do such a thing. But I am not willing to take so great a risk, either."

"Perhaps you don't understand, Captain." He leaned forward. "I am giving you my word."

Ky shook his head. Although he had never met Vicar Conrad personally, he could easily see why the man had the reputation he did, barely allowing his opponent to finish his sentences, and reducing any sensible argument to matters of loyalty and honor. Question God's self-anointed, question God Himself.

"Then I will have to be very blunt, Your Grace. You would have me take your word on the integrity of men whose identities you decline to reveal, whose area of expertise is unknown, and who will be arriving on short notice. I beg your pardon, but this is simply not satisfactory, not as long as I am responsible for so many lives."

He had expected another outburst, more accusations, perhaps even threats of official complaints, ludicrous as that was. The vicar's face wasn't creasing in a grimace of fury, though, but with the thin lines of a smile, and when Conrad reached into the folds of his chasuble, Ky knew he had been waiting for just that.

"Then I'm afraid you leave me no choice. By the power vested in me, I _order_ you to admit our honored guests. They will be arriving at fifteen-hundred." Lips quirking higher, he pulled out a gold-rimmed envelope sealed with wax, and handed it to Ky. "Now then. If you'll excuse me, I must attend to my duties. Do feel free to investigate its authenticity, Captain. You might find yourself... surprised."

With that, he turned on his heel and marched past the guard, disappearing between the containers. Ky watched him go, hooking a finger into the flap of the envelope and tearing it open, a letter bearing the insignia of the Holy See sliding into his palm.

"Commander, sir?" Jarre was peering at him hesitantly, confusion written all over his face. "What the— I mean, what was that all about?"

"I have no idea," Ky murmured, eyes widening as he scanned the missive. "Major, I want you to get me the festival committee on the line. I've got a blank pass for this mystery team here, and I want to know who approved it. This isn't in their jurisdiction."

"Yes, sir. Right away."

With a quick salute, Jarre withdrew, leaving him to adjust the channels on his headset. "Bernard?"

"Speaking, sir. Just a moment." His aide's voice was as carefully controlled as ever, though Ky could sense some surprise in his tone. He probably hadn't expected a radio call at headquarters, let alone one using one of the old wartime scramblings. There was the sound of shuffling feet and the heavy office doors closing, before Bernard picked up the transmission again. "We're alone, sir."

"I apologize for interrupting your work," Ky said. "But I require your assistance. I need you to find out everything you can about Cardinal Gregory and his attendant, a certain Vicar Conrad. Their past, their political ties, anyone of relevance they might have had contact with. Unfortunately, I can't give you a specific time frame. You might very well have to dig around in Order correspondence."

A pause, and he could hear Bernard frowning. "Is something the matter, sir?"

Ky sighed, raking a hand through his hair. "I can't say yet. But... if you have to speak to anyone, please be careful."

.

.

.

.

- TBC-

**A/N:** This one is mostly terrible exposition. Meh. Hope you'll bear with me till the next chapter, where Stuff Is Actually Going to Happen. Anyway, thanks go to Tofu for the check-up, and C&C is, as usual, greatly appreciated.

- And because everyone can see what I did there, Proverbs 19:21.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** Going off the Record  
**Part:** 3/?  
**Fandom:** Guilty Gear  
**Characters:** Ky, Sol, obligatory cameos  
**Rating:** PG, for now  
**Warnings:** Alternate Timeline, beginning around GGX.  
**Notes:** This fic grabs canon by the throat and shakes it until all the shiny things come tumbling out. Including Sin. Somewhere along the line, the world gets saved. Go figure.

.

.

**Going off the Record**  
_Chapter III_

_._

_.  
_

Andreyev had decided a long time ago that the only difference between winter and spring in the field was the amount of water you could feel collecting in your boots. Winter had the side effect of costing you a couple of toes if you weren't careful, but spring allowed you to enjoy the sandpaper sensation of dirt-soaked wool rubbing your skin raw.

This far south, the onset of March marked the beginning of the rains, great drenching sheets sweeping across the land until pitching tents almost didn't matter anymore, everything steeped in cold slush. In comparison, the base had been a relative comfort zone despite standing practically on the edge of hell, with heated rooms and canned meals, and Andreyev could admit, if only to himself, that it had made him soft. His feet were once again as unused to marching as they had been when he'd still been a recruit, fresh from training and ready to be introduced to all the aches and pains that came with serving in the field, and the lovely thumb-sized blisters were almost as embarrassing as they hurt. He thought he was doing a pretty good job of hiding his discomfort, though, until the Commander gave him a sympathetic smile over the morning reports, and inquired whether his feet were feeling any better.

Their orders were to head further east, into a strip of uninhabited land, but the Commander just frowned at the sheet and held it out to Badguy, who shook his head and said, "What the fuck," and then the Commander went to direct the battalion the other way.

It wasn't the first time he'd seen them like this, heads bent together and muttering things that only they seemed to understand, as if the only one they had to answer to was each other, and in Badguy's case, maybe not even that. Andreyev knew better than to ask, better than to pry. Once upon a time, he might have, but no longer. He was only owing it to the Commander that he was even here and not bleeding out in a ditch somewhere as part of a punishment-slash-suicide-reassignment, so all he needed to know was that they were the people who were going to keep him alive.

The change in plans took them north, straight into a stretch of burnt villages, the rains washing away the rubble until all that was left was a couple of charred cornerstones to mark where the houses had been. No one left, and no bodies, no names to any of them, and Andreyev wasn't sure if these towns had simply been forgotten, too small and too far away to earn a spot on a map or a mission plan, or deemed a waste of time and energy, a responsibility ignored until it was too late.

The Commander's face betrayed nothing, and at the time, Andreyev was almost grateful for it, not yet ready to wonder about other Moscows. The trials had been hard enough to accept, the idea that committing insubordination to save more than ten-thousand refugees was somehow worse than sentencing them to death, and although he'd never asked, had never had the chance to find out what happened to Gorsky or anyone else involved in the bombardment, he was pretty sure he wouldn't have liked the answer. It was easier to deal with it by cutting out that part of the Order, by pretending things began and ended with the Commander, who stood above everything, unfaltering and untouchable.

And it stayed that way until a grand total of two weeks into the campaign.

The Commander had left the army to Badguy and taken a couple of platoons for an assault team, pushing onward in an attempt to save the towns that lay beyond the burnt wasteland. The further they came, the easier Andreyev could see why nobody had thought the region worthy of consideration, shantytowns half-built into mountainsides, nothing any HQ tactician would deem worth risking lives for. The people themselves looked more dead than alive, ragged and so terrified that they were ready to hail the soldiers as God's army come to herald Judgment Day, throwing themselves at their feet and begging for salvation.

It was in that moment, seeing the Commander kneel and embrace a wailing, toothless old man in an attempt to coax them all into lifting their faces, the moment before he looked up and wordlessly motioned for Andreyev to make preparations to move out. Andreyev could only nod and gesture for the soldiers to follow, not quite able to forget the split-second glimpse of something else — the honest pain in Commander Kiske's eyes at being called a savior.

There was an unexpected sense of shame in the discovery, in realizing that he was no better than these frightened ghosts, so far gone that all they had to cling to was the legend of the Order's messiah.

Partly, it was that guilt that finally led to him fidgeting around with a cup of soup, rainwater dripping between his fingers despite his best efforts. They'd been pushed back into a valley, the Gears closing steadily in on them, and no radio contact with the rest of the army. No way to tell if they even knew their position, and the only comfort was the thought that the rain was at least buying time, washing away the scent of sweat and human blood. The Commander was keeping faith, though, as if he knew something the rest of them didn't, unshakable in his conviction that they would push through at the critical moment.

Andreyev found him crouched between some rocks, taking an extra watch so that the rest of the team could regather their strength, squinting into the forest for any sign of the dreaded shapes. He felt decidedly foolish, shifting from foot to foot like an anxious child, until the Commander took the decision out of his hands by turning, a smile lighting up on his pale, tired face when he spied the offering. His hands were shaking when he accepted the cup, perhaps from cold or exhaustion or both, and he gulped the lukewarm broth so quickly that he couldn't have been eating enough steady meals, no doubt sharing his rations with a couple of the half-starved children and just not bothering to tell anyone else. He seemed smaller somehow, then, the aura of untouchability wavering to allow glimpses of a boy to shine through, a boy almost half Andreyev's age who truly shouldn't have been there at all.

It might have been that which prompted him to speak, to question the Commander's decision when he otherwise wouldn't have dared. "I could take over here, sir, if... I mean, you could rest a bit."

He realized it had been tactless to say so even as he did, the Commander sitting up just that much straighter, determination brushing aside the fatigue. "Thank you, Lieutenant, I'll be fine. Besides—" and this was half-murmured into his collar, "—something will probably explode as soon as I sit down."

His tone was so dry, so matter-of-fact, that it wasn't until his lips quirked again that Andreyev understood he hadn't been serious; it wasn't really true that Justice would send her troops pouring into the gorge as soon as he closed his eyes.

Something must have shown on his face, because the Commander's smile widened just that extra notch, a spark lighting in his eyes. "It's just my special karma."

When there was no response, his expression grew serious once again, and eventually, he turned his gaze back into the forest, signaling the end of their conversation.

Andreyev was still trying to process what had just transpired, realizing a little too late that maybe, he should have been doing something, or saying something to let the Commander know it was okay for him to be joking, instead of standing there useless and ineffectual like the rest of them, too wound up and dependant to even allow the Commander something as small as a momentary burst of humor. If this had been a test, he was pretty sure he'd managed to fail spectacularly.

Clearing his throat, he stepped forward. "I could... I mean. I'm sure we could ask the water mages to help out in that case, sir."

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* * *

.

Now, years later, Andreyev realized how little had changed.

In the time he'd been gone, the mood had tipped from professional tension into a kind of nervousness that felt like touching a live wire, a persistent buzz that was making his hackles rise without even knowing why. The guards at the north exit were unusually jumpy, speaking in mumbles and sharing uncertain glances, and Andreyev knew that look from countless hours in the field — something had happened, and it was affecting the Commander.

Moving through the backstage area, he quickened his step, brushing past people and equipment in his way with barely the mind to apologize. He'd known, _known_ that something was going to happen, with all the paranoia of someone whose life had too long depended on gut instinct alone, and now he just found himself wishing he'd acted on it. It wouldn't have kept anything from happening, perhaps, but he might've been able to take the brunt of it, nab a part of the workload before the Commander had a chance to take it all for himself. At the very least, he could have thought of radioing back in, because of course the Commander would be too polite to interrupt his break, too determined to deal with things on his own.

At least, there wasn't the commotion typically associated with dead bodies, which would have been his first guess. He'd heard enough snippets on his way to piece together a picture, vague as it was; some kind of important guy making a fuss, bringing problems to their doorstep, though nobody seemed to know what exactly it was. Nothing that could be easily resolved, that was for sure, if only because big people tended to make big trouble. That was something every soldier had known, the first piece of wisdom handed to new recruits in the army, and he thought he'd known, too, until Moscow. After that, everything else just paled in comparison.

The front area was once again filled with noise, delegates slowly retaking seats, drinks and plates of dessert still in hand. No sign of Sir Kiske anywhere, so that left the command center on the far side of the overhangs. The place was hardly deserving of such a grand name, a shed consisting entirely of detachable walls to house what little equipment they'd graciously been allowed to bring along, since the festival committee was far too concerned with aesthetics to bother with things such as order and security.

And the Commander, leaning against the side of the shack, the headset pressed against his ears and listening closely. He hadn't acknowledged Andreyev's presence, frowning to himself and murmuring confirmations into the microphone.

"...I understand. That's—" A short pause. "No, thank you, Bernard. I wouldn't want you to take any risks until we know what we're at. We'll wait and see what develops. I will contact you again as soon as I know more."

The transmission clicked off, and he lowered the headset, pressing his lips together. Andreyev waited for a minute, before hesitantly clearing his throat. "...Sir?"

For a moment, the Commander's eyes were piercing. Then, he shook his head, whatever he had been preoccupied with being shoved to the back of his mind to make room for a gentler expression, but Andreyev knew that look all too well, the same intense gaze that would come with a battle.

"Lieutenant. I didn't expect you back so early." He smiled. "Though I can't say I'm unhappy you didn't listen to me."

"You know me, sir. History of insubordination and all," Andreyev said, a sheepish grin settling on his face momentarily before he sobered. "What's going on here? The guys up north were pretty highstrung, but they couldn't tell me anything past, what was it? Oh yeah, 'a pig-eyed little bastard thinking himself boss of us'."

"We're not much better off, unfortunately," the Commander said, the glint of good humor evaporating as fast as it had appeared. He reached into the folds of his coat, pulling out an ornamented letter and handing it to him. "I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to treat the contents as confidential for the time being."

"The Holy See?" Andreyev breathed, barely able to bite back an oath as he skimmed the lines.

"The very same," the Commander said grimly. "Let's just say some very important people are very interested in bypassing the security inspections with an unregistered team. I don't know who, or why, but there's something they don't want us to see, and that's not happening on my watch."

Andreyev shook his head. "But why would the Church even... I mean, they were the ones making a fuss about this entire thing in the first place."

"'Opposition on the grounds of concerns about heretic research,'" the Commander quoted and rolled his eyes, no doubt recalling the flood of outraged protests. Some of them had even found their way to the IPF, as if they had any influence on the event whatsoever. At the time, they'd both thought of it as a rather crude attempt at instilling a collective guilt complex in former Holy Knights, or perhaps an appeal to the esteemed Commander's presumed principles, but now...

The door to the shed opened, Jarre sticking his head through. "Sir? I don't think we're going to get anything out of the committee. Seemed pretty flustered about my call, though."

"They probably expected the name on the paper to carry," the Commander said, nodding to himself.

"Looks like it, sir. They told me to take it up with their sponsors if we had further questions, since they're just low and humble organizers, and so on and so forth, and that was the end of that. But..." Testing a grin, Jarre pulled out a sheet of paper, names and phone numbers scrawled across its length. "Their secretary was much more helpful when she found out she'd be doing you a favor, sir. She gave me a list of their sponsors... going through them all's going to be a bit of work. There's at least ten big ones, but technically, it could be anyone."

"Thank you, Major. That might not necessary."

"Sir?"

"I just got a call from Bernard. Do you have Dominique Vaillant on that list?" the Commander asked.

"No... not by name, sir. But... I've got the Foreign Ministry among the top five sponsors."

"Bingo."

"Pardon, sir?"

He shook his head. "Never mind, Major. According to Bernard, the cardinal's office has been maintaining unusually close contact with the ministry. Apparently it had something to do with issuing collective entry visas for our mysterious guests."

Andreyev frowned, still not sure what was going on. "What would they need that for? Unless..."

"Exactly, Lieutenant. They aren't from anywhere within Europe." He drew a breath. "I'm pretty sure we're going to receive a visit from Zepp."

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* * *

.

There had been a time when it had surprised him to learn that Commander Kiske wasn't as well-liked by his superiors as he was by his subordinates.

Andreyev didn't consider himself someone who trusted easily; nothing else would've done, in that war, than to watch those higher on the food chain closely — the brigadier general, the squad captain, even the NCO breaking in his little team of wide-eyed green recruits. If he was going to be handing his life over to someone, he figured, then that person would have to deal with being watched, and questioned, and evaluated. It was the reason he'd never made it past lieutenant, too good not to be awarded the position but considered too troublesome to climb any higher. He hadn't really cared, had wanted just enough control over his fate to be able to voice his thoughts, and if his objections kept a handful of people from being torn to pieces for nothing, then that was enough.

The only mistake he'd ever made had been Gorsky, who had seen too much and experienced too much for Andreyev to think him untrustworthy. A harsh man, opinionated, maybe, but he'd had much more temperamental leaders than to consider that an issue, never once recognizing that harshness was merely an armor for someone who had little else left.

In comparison, the first few weeks with the Commander had been almost unreal; serving under someone who never idled, never lingered, someone for whom pride and pain meant nothing if he could save even one life. Someone who could, and would, try to reassure the frightened young medic sent to patch him up even when he was bleeding all over himself.

It was impossible to remain wary of such a man, not to grow to like him, that the answer kept eluding him for longer than it should have. The people who didn't like the Commander didn't see him as a person, but as an unwelcome measuring pole for themselves, someone whose name brought an adoring shine to every common soldier's eye, and past all the cynicism and envy lay something much simpler — the pure, unadulterated fear of what Ky Kiske might do with so much devotion.

.

* * *

.

Looking at the assembled officers, Andreyev was quite certain that nothing had changed, every single one of them ready to disobey the missive if the Commander asked them to, ministry and Vatican and whoever else be damned. He couldn't quite keep from toying with the thought of a little impromptu insurrection, ridiculous as it was, because he didn't like the idea of the Church strolling back into their lives to give orders as if the war had never ended.

The Commander himself, of course, seemed as unaffected as always, and if Andreyev had ever been able to tell what he was thinking in these moments, he couldn't now. Privately, he suspected the Commander was at least a little bit angry, though, if the way he was instructing them to politely tail their visitors was any indication. At least, Andreyev liked to imagine it that way, if only to feel better about his own childish ideas.

"Until we know more, I would like you to treat these special guests with all the care and attention they deserve. Remain on guard, and report any unusual activities." The Commander paused, surveying the group, before adding, "Also keep in mind that some of our other charges might not be all that well-disposed towards Zeppians. I would like to keep their arrival the only untoward occurrence. That is all."

Watching the officers salute and return to their posts, Andreyev murmured, "You think that's going to be an issue, sir?"

"Hostilities?" The Commander had pulled out the letter again, studying it as if it might reveal anything new through sheer willpower. "To be honest, I'm dreading the reception. Alcohol and a few hundred delegates who can't stand each other. I know several people in attendance who used to call blacktech the devil's work and advocated the... purification of its worshippers. Heaven help anyone who so much as uttered 'Zepp' in their presence."

"Speaking from experience, sir?"

"You have no idea, Lieutenant, how much grief it would have saved us, allying with Zepp. Neither Commander Undersen nor I could ever convince them of doing something so small as sharing information on Gear movements."

Andreyev blinked. "Really, sir? But wasn't that—"

"Considered heresy?" There was a twinkle in the Commander's eyes, as if he was enjoying the memory. "Oh, we did catch hell for it, Lieutenant. Several times. But Gears don't wait for scheduled hearings, and after a while... well."

And after a while, Andreyev thought, someone must have realized that if the Commander went, half the army would go with him. He frowned. "I still can't quite... I mean, they _hate_ blacktech. Why Zepp? Why now?"

"I think we're both aware that the organization we used to work for can decide very quickly which virtues are convenient at what time," the Commander said quietly, sighing.

"Pardon, sir, but... you don't sound all that surprised."

An indecipherable look flitted across the Commander's face, so dark and pensive that it almost made him regret asking, before it vanished as if it had never been. "I've heard them change their tune so often when it came to the important things... rebuffed one moment, approved the next. This just seems like another line in a familiar song. Plus, Vaillant and the ministry have been pushing for a 'reconciliation' with Zepp for quite some time. Since nobody can say a word about that sort of thing without the inquisition breathing down their necks, I suspect they had someone's goodwill."

"But that leaves the question what they're getting out of it. If they were never interested in trade before..."

They were interrupted by a crackle from the radio. "Sir?"

"Kiske speaking." The Commander lowered his head to listen, before turning and heading in the direction of the northern checkpoint. "That, Lieutenant, is what I'm afraid we're about to find out."

Andreyev stood looking after him for a moment, still preoccupied with the puzzle. It was times like this that almost made him long for the days when all he'd had to worry about was fulfilling his duty, when the objectives had been clear-cut and simple, nothing beyond survival. They'd never been for the Commander, though, that much he knew, but he had the distinct feeling that if asked, Sir Kiske would agree that fighting Gears was easier than politics. At least, monsters didn't cook up conspiracies.

Something crinkled in his hand, and he realized he'd still been holding onto the paper bags like an idiot, never once following through with his original objective. With a mournful sigh, he set them down and hurried after the Commander. Judging by how things were shaping up, they'd be lucky to even be able to grab a bite at the dinner reception tonight.

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* * *

.

"So, how is it looking?"

They were standing in the dim stuffiness of a warehouse, surrounded by tarps and linen wraps. The town itself had been something of an unexpected gift, a deserted ruin in the middle of nowhere that wasn't even marked on the map. Dead for a good fifty years, judging by the degree of growth, the plants in the process of reclaiming the empty buildings. The shrubbery was climbing the walls, flowers sprouting from between the cobblestones, a willow tree bursting through the broken church spire. It was rare to find places like this, settlements that had been abandoned instead of razed to the ground, and most of the soldiers seemed happy about it — the first signs of civilization they'd seen in almost four months, providing better shelter from the wind-swept plains.

Andreyev found it strange to be walking through the streets, brushing past weeds and half-collapsed walls, and catching glimpses of long-gone lives; farming tools scattered about, a rocking chair covered in cobwebs, a stuffed rabbit that came apart in his hands when he picked it up. Whoever had lived here had probably left in a hurry, and he briefly thought, as he tried to reattach the head to the rabbit's body, that the child it had once belonged to had to be old by now, if it had managed to live into adulthood.

"Sterno stoves, a couple of fuel cells. Welders." Badguy reappeared between the tarps, wiping his hands on his thighs and sneezing against the dust. "Two emergency generators. Not bad, all in all. I could rig the big guns with those, make up for the busted cores."

The Commander narrowed his eyes. "Repairs with blacktech components, you mean."

"Nah, you got it all wrong." He pushed another covering out of the way, revealing an assortment of parts that Andreyev had never seen in his life. Some vaguely looked like pumps, while others reminded him of giant clockworks, but he couldn't even begin to guess at their true purpose. Badguy picked up one of the pieces, a rectangular box with a couple of switches sitting on top of it, and demonstratively held it out to the Commander.

"See, this here's got a magically forged alloy, and if I open it up here—" He lifted the side covering to show a tangle of wires. "You can see the power crystal."

Andreyev squinted, seeing exactly nothing, but the Commander nodded solemnly, and made a note on his form sheet. "Excellent. What about those things over there?"

"Turboshafts. Perfectly normal, everyday turboshafts."

Andreyev had no idea what a turboshaft was, but the Commander obviously did, because he nodded again, and made another note.

"And before you ask, the coils are fine because they were welded by magical blowtorches and blah blah blah, et cetera et cetera."

The Commander raised an eyebrow. "You know, you used to be better at this."

"Can't remember what I said last time," Badguy said, shrugging. "Oh, and better toss some holy water on these generators. You know. Just to be sure."

"Fine." The Commander tore off the form sheet, folding it in half and handing it to Andreyev. "Lieutenant, please cross-check this with the copy of form AC/457-9. I'd rather the reports match."

Andreyev could only salute in response and hurry to fulfill the request, trying not to think about the fact that he'd just been privy to the most unorthodox blacktech verification process of his entire career.

.

* * *

.

Whatever reservations he might have had towards blacktech, serving under the Commander with his no-nonsense attitude managed to swiftly eliminate any concerns. What could be used was used, no matter where it did or did not come from, the Commander unwilling to sacrifice lives over superstitions and superficiality. Andreyev had never managed to guess at Badguy's involvement in all of it, as the man certainly had no special rank or qualifications to speak of, but he'd seen experienced technicians bow out whenever he approached, fixing weapons with an air of eternal disgruntlement that kept anyone from asking questions.

Sometimes, Andreyev had wondered about him being from Zepp, but he couldn't recall ever meeting a Zeppian in his life, and thus had no way to verify the theory.

What little he knew about the country came from briefings and orders that were just barely skirting labeling them an enemy. There was to be no interaction with the devil's own, no exchange of words or goods, and anything suspected of belonging to that heathen cult was to be purged immediately. He'd grown up on stories of people who simply disappeared, never to be seen again, for disobeying God's law. Zeppians were heretics, spreading the seeds of evil by tempting the good and faithful with lies, promises of an easier life at the small cost of one's soul. Their wicked ways were to blame for the existence of the Gears, and the best way to identify them was by the greedy gleam in their small, beady eyes, and their heavy rolling words that sounded like the buzzing of locusts' wings.

Eventually, though, his world had expanded beyond the Saturday morning lessons in the rickety village chapel, swiftly and brutally, and if the field taught him anything, it was that the self-proclaimed just and righteous were the ones who would divide the world into those worth saving and those worth damning. Their words seemed to have consequences far more real than any distant blame recorded in children's tales, and sometimes, surrounded by so much death and dying, he had to wonder if there had ever really been a time without Gears.

He wasn't sure what he'd expected from their surprise guests, but now that he was standing face to face with their caravan, he had to admit that he'd thought them to be at least a little bit outlandish. Words like 'scavengers' and 'heretics' had helped to paint rather interesting pictures, so it was a bit hard to ditch the mental image of cultist robes studded with mysterious gadgets. They hadn't even brought anything remotely otherworldly, just ordinary horse-drawn wagons loaded with the standard transport containers, and if anything, most of the scientists appeared rather timid.

Then again, Andreyev reflected, they probably hadn't expected to be greeted by a dozen officers.

After a moment of tense silence, a tall, dark-haired woman stepped forward, bowing deeply. When she spoke, her voice was soft and clear, rolling the consonants. "Sir Kiske. It is an honor to finally meet you. I'm Lara Kahren."

The Commander bowed in turn, the smile on his face nothing but polite and hospitable. "The pleasure is mine, Doctor. Welcome to Paris."

"Not at all. On behalf of our team leader, I'd like to extend my deepest apologies. We heard about the... unfortunate circumstances surrounding our participation." She shook her head regretfully. "We assumed that all the official details had been taken care of. Doctor Meirth asked me to assure you that we will register an official complaint as soon as possible."

"Thank you. I greatly appreciate any help in clearing up this misunderstanding," the Commander said. "We will do our best to make yours an enjoyable stay. Since we're missing all the necessary applications, however, I will have to ask you and your team to provide some form of identification."

"Of course." She reached into the pocket of her lab coat. "I assume our visas will suffice?"

"Certainly. Major Jarre will take care of the formalities." On cue, Jarre stepped forward, distributing the forms among the group.

"I'm afraid we will have to trouble you further, Sir Kiske," Kahren was saying, her pen flying across the paper with all the efficiency of someone who was used to filling out reports. "Doctor Meirth hasn't been feeling well since we arrived, so he's resting at the hotel. Would it be all right for him to sign these later?"

If the Commander was surprised at this piece of news, he didn't show it, still the very picture of cordiality. If Andreyev hadn't been present for the briefing, he would have been none the wiser. "That won't be a problem. You may unload your transports in the area beyond here. The officers will gladly assist you."

"Thank you again, but... we will have to do this ourselves. The equipment is quite delicate, you see, and we would like to have our big reveal at the presentations tomorrow."

"I apologize, Doctor, but that won't be possible. I'm sure you understand that security is an equally delicate matter. And in the unlikely event that anything happens, we won't be able to act on your behalf, either, unless we can verify the equipment in its original state."

She hesitated for a moment, a shadow of uncertainty darting across features. "I'd... have to ask Doctor Meirth for permission."

The Commander inclined his head, and she reached into her coat again, pulling out a headset. It was smaller and sleeker than what they were used to at the IPF, but unmistakably a radio device, and Andreyev only had a second to wonder why on Earth a simple scientist would be walking around with a radio in her pocket, before a man's voice burst from the speaker, tinny and hollow, but with the tone of someone who was very much not sick.

"Lara? How unexpected. What seems to be the trouble?"

In the space of only a few words, Kahren's entire countenance seemed to change, the self-assuredness melting away, her fingers clenching around the radio unit. "I'm sorry, Doctor Meirth. Sir Kiske is asking to see the project ahead of time for security reasons. What should we—"

A brief pause, and when the voice spoke again, Andreyev could swear it sounded amused. "But Lara, what kind of question is that. If Sir Kiske insists, then we will have to do exactly that. After all, I have no doubt that he will find our project most interesting."

Kahren was practically squirming now, and Andreyev exchanged a suspicious glance with the Commander. "...Understood, Doctor."

The channel went dead, and she lowered the radio, biting her lip. "Very well. Miren, Anis, open container A for inspection. Sir Kiske..."

The two assistants looked at each other, before climbing onto the first wagon and on top of the container. Clamps were released, dropping back with a dull sound, and then the front slid open and upwards, revealing the interior.

Andreyev took a step back in sheer reflex, reaching for the hilt of his sword even before he fully realized what he was seeing — four perfect, evenly sized figures in identical uniforms, only distinguishable from the real thing by the metallic gleam on their inhuman faces. Gasps all around, the officers too shocked to even speak, and Kahren was saying something, trying to explain, but he couldn't tear his gaze away.

Beside him, Sir Kiske had frozen, eyes widening as he stared at something that simply couldn't be.

"They look..."

_...just like you, sir._

_._

_._

_._

_.  
_

-TBC-

**A/N:** We took the red pill. C&C is much appreciated, and thanks go to Tofu for being the guinea pig. XD


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** Going off the Record  
**Part:** 4/?  
**Fandom:** Guilty Gear  
**Characters:** Ky, Sol, obligatory cameos  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Warnings:** Alternate Timeline beginning around GGX  
**Notes:** This fic grabs canon by the throat and shakes it until all the shiny things come tumbling out. Including Sin. Somewhere along the line, the world gets saved. Go figure.

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**Going off the Record**  
_Chapter IV_

_._

_.  
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_You always knew that there was something not right with the world, some deep-seated wrongness just waiting to be exposed._

_You just thought that when the time came... you could get him to explain it to you._

_.  
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* * *

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The edge of the hole was smooth, a bulge of melted plating that steadily evened out like the cooling trails around a lava geyser. Inside, everything was an indistinguishable mess of charred black, the blast cutting a swath through tissue and brain deep into the body, the stench of burnt flesh slowly rising to the surface. Outside, not a sign that it had been wounded at all, except for the hole. A lucky shot, too, two minutes of concentrated fire in the same spot, and even then the creature hadn't stopped running, plowing into the rock wall where it had finally come to a stop.

Ky stepped back, his reflection catching in one of the graying pupils — the size of a cart wheel, and protected by a dome of the same material, only clear and see-through. Resting a hand against it, it felt like glass, polished and cool, and impossible to injure. The Gear was no less than a moving fortress, and he would have dearly liked to find a way to cut a piece of its armor and send it back to Headquarters, the labs, the testing facilities, anybody who might wake up and realize just what they were dealing with, and turn it into something useful. He would have, too, if there had been time and he hadn't tried the same thing a dozen times before, only to see it go nowhere.

There was no sense in wasting time on anger or disappointment, though, not when he knew, had always known because Kliff had made sure he understood perfectly how the world worked, the myriad small ways survival was sacrificed to fear and profit. No sense in wasting the breath to rage, when the same energy could be used for so many more important, immediate things.

To his left, one of the boulders shifted, slowly capsizing to crush a few carcasses under its weight and sending a rain of pebbles skittering down the slope. A moment later, Sol came into view, clambering over the mounds of bodies in his way with barely any effort. His uniform was torn in more than one place, the fabric shredded by a claw swipe that must have struck true, but Ky knew better than to wonder how much of the blood was his. All of that seemed to matter little to the child in his arms, her tiny white-knuckled fists tangled so tightly in his hair that they wouldn't be removed, though he'd most likely tried.

"Found something."

At the sound of his voice, the little girl shivered, clutching harder at Sol's neck and making him grunt. Wordlessly, he reached up to coax her into loosening her death-grip, one of her arms so thin that it easily fit between his thumb and forefinger.

Futilely wiping at the mud on his cheeks, Ky left the giant's bulk behind and strode up to meet them.

"Wedged in a cave back there." Sol jerked his chin as much as the little girl allowed. "Guess someone brought them up here before shit started going down. Sealed the entrances, but kinda forgot the bare essentials."

He shrugged, the motion flicking bits of tissue off his blade and allowing Ky to catch a glimpse of the half-dozen small ghosts huddling in his shadow, obviously longing to press closer but not quite daring. All of them dead on their feet and clinging to each other, flinching when he knelt to determine whether they were injured beyond bone-deep terror and the first signs of starvation. He smiled, or tried to, pretty sure the various streaks of fluid on his uniform weren't helping any, and reached into the pack on his belt to grope around for the tangle of ration bars. All of them had been alternately soaked and dried so many times that they were glued together like pieces of wet clay, and about as appetizing, but it was better than nothing.

Peeling off the bits of foil from the sticky outer layer, he crumbled up the rock-solid bars, trying not to wince at the incredulous adoration dawning on the children's faces as if he were something sent from heaven, bearing glorious gifts. They didn't so much step forward as lunge, darting from the protection of one adult into the arms of the next, latching onto his coat and legs and grabbing greedily for the poor offering. He barely even had the time to crumble new chunks, the children snatching them from his fingers and trying to swallow them whole in their haste.

"Easy there, easy," Ky said, though it hardly seemed to slow them down. "Are they...?"

"All that's left," Sol growled, trying to figure out how to shift the girl without making her crush his windpipe. "These caves are death traps, and they locked them in a dozen at a time. Couple of the fucking ratholes were practically airtight."

Ky shook his head. Suffocation was by far one of the most painless ways to die, certainly preferable to slow and painful dehydration, but he could all too easily imagine the children waiting, convinced that it wouldn't take long, hanging on to the dwindling hope that their parents would come for them. "How long?"

"Hard to say. A week, maybe more. The rains probably saved this batch."

"And their parents?"

"No adults in there," Sol said, frowning so deeply that the headband was slipping to the bridge of his nose. "Just sealed off the caves and left. Didn't look like they thought they'd be gone long, either."

"Maybe hoping to distract the Gears," Ky said, sighing. "People don't tend to make rational decisions in a war."

The children had made short work of the rations, but hadn't really moved away, two of them already nestling into the crook of his arm. Ky reached out, patting their heads and murmuring encouragements that rang hollow to his own ears, knowing that there would be no way past the destroyed village, past the tatters of their lives. No choice other than to take the children along with the assault squads when they moved to rejoin the main army, and most likely headlong into another battle. No way to leave them out here, or send them anywhere else, nothing left to do but hoping to get them to safety along with the civilians in the capital down south.

Carefully, he picked up a small boy who seemed just about ready to slump forward against his knee, and turned to Sol. "Let's get them to the infirmary. The Lord knows what they were drinking before the rains set in."

A nod, and they began their trek down the slope, winding their way between bodies and jagged outcroppings. The town at its foot couldn't even be described as a ruin, a hamlet of no strategic significance at all, and yet a host of Gears three times greater than necessary had descended upon it, crushing buildings to dust and razing pastures until even the earth was gone, leaving only the naked rock. The strew of carcasses extended beyond the first slope, and against the darkening sky, he could see the torches moving, soldiers seeking to burn the bodies of their fallen comrades because there was no time for a proper burial.

It wasn't unlike Justice to send more than it took — after all, she had the forces to spare, and knew how to win battles in ways that had nothing to do with death tolls. Even if the Order managed to prevail, she won anyway, consuming the spirits of the survivors to leave behind dead-eyed shells. And she tended to waste no time when carrying out a strike, her forces immediately on the move again after a kill, searching for the next target. This time, though, the Gears had stayed despite succeeding in complete annihilation, raging mindlessly in the destroyed town.

"I wonder what she wanted here," Ky said quietly, surveying the damage. Only here and there, something stuck out of the expanse of molten rock, something that might have been part of a gable or a barn, charred beyond recognition.

Sol glanced at him, but said nothing.

"Commander!"

The cry sent the children skittering against both of them, three pairs of hands scrambling for the tails of his coat. A soldier was running towards them, her scabbard striking against her legs. She skidded to a halt in front of them, so out of breath that it took her three tries to snap a proper salute, even though Ky had already dismissed her.

"Commander, sir. There's something..." She broke off, still trying to catch her breath. "Beyond the town square. We found it when we moved— well, there were Gears _stuck_ in it, sir. We thought there might be survivors, but it's.... you better come see for yourself, sir. We have no idea what it is."

Exchanging a glance with Sol, Ky nodded. "Alright, Sergeant. I have a new task for you. Waylay the next medic and ask them to treat these children. Dehydration, shock, possibly hypothermia."

"Understood. Are they... are they the only ones, sir?"

"I'm afraid so," Ky said, kneeling again to set the boy down, who was very reluctant to let go. He smiled, gently plucking his fingers from his collar. "You're safe now, I promise. Sergeant Alessandra will look after you, alright?"

"Of course, sir." The soldier stepped forward, holding out her arms to take the boy from Ky, and quickly found herself surrounded by the rest, the children desperate enough to recognize a mother or a father in any protective embrace. The only one who wouldn't budge was the little girl still hanging onto Sol's neck, who whimpered and held on tighter when he attempted to extricate his hair from her grasp.

Eventually, he heaved a sigh, and started off in the direction the sergeant had pointed out. "You coming or what?"

With one last look at the children, Ky hurried after him.

The only way to distinguish the location from the rest of the wasteland was a squad of soldiers, waving and pointing in agitation, even though it wasn't really necessary. Past a mound of Gear bodies, the ground opened up, torn open by shovel-like claws to reveal a ravine so wide and deep it could have comfortably swallowed several of the farming barns. Along its edge, shreds of burnt metal were twisting in all directions, remnants of a cover plate that couldn't have been moved there by anything in this town.

Ky crouched down to peer inside, taking note of the melted plating along the walls and the Gear bodies still clustered over the rim on the other side, hanging down like a string of grotesque beads. Further down, a platform that might have been a means to descend had been torn off its hinges on one side, creaking as it slowly swung over the abyss. More Gears around and beyond it, impaled on what seemed to be support struts, long, massive beams crisscrossing and losing themselves in the darkness, and Ky realized with a start that whatever had killed the creatures, it had to have come from the _inside_.

"Well," Sol said, a note of chilling coldness in his voice that he'd never heard before. "Now we know where the adults went."

Ky inhaled, searching for the words to even begin formulating a coherent question, but nothing would come to him.

"Main host is still moving." Sol was staring straight ahead, towards the inky press of clouds and fading light on the horizon, as if the crater in front of him simply wasn't there.

"Where to?" Ky murmured.

"South, south-west. Not like we expected any different."

"I understand."

Long before he had ever entered a battle, Kliff had taken him aside to explain the importance of choice.

Save a village of civilians or a caravan of supplies that will ensure the survival of half your troops. A hospice filled with the sick and dying, or those that can still walk on their own two legs. A bunch of frightened children, or a handful of adults that might be able to use weapons. Just a group of people, and the resources to rescue only one person.

Ky had never been able to find an answer to any of them, but Kliff hadn't expected him to. Understanding was all it took, the knowledge that the field would force him eventually, and demand his decisions in a heartbeat. No time to deliberate, no time to weigh options, no room to breathe, and he had to be glad for the times when the choices were simple, when one of them meant wasting time he didn't have and the other meant saving lives. And it was that which made it easy to turn now, which made him leave behind the gaping maw and push the snarl of thoughts into the back of his mind, a corner reserved for stuff to wonder about when things weren't marching to hell in a handbasket.

If Sol was surprised at his decision, he didn't show it, his footsteps as heavy as the certainty that the shaft in the earth wasn't nearly as unexpected to him as it was to Ky. He never had the chance to ask about it, though, to find the perfect question that would unravel the mystery, because soon after that, Sol was gone.

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* * *

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He had never meant to leave the Order.

Meaning to would have implied something like a plan, a conscious decision where in reality, there had only been white noise, his mind in that special state of serenity that came with a fifty-four hour shift and the end of the world. In retrospect, all his actions seemed so stunningly deliberate that it was no wonder why people would assume, but in truth, all Ky had meant to do that night was to go for a walk.

They'd shoved him into a carriage bound for Headquarters first thing after confirmation went out — hell's forces vanquished, the devil slain, and the messiah on his way to parades and toasts — and so he had ample time to watch the scenery speeding past, desert wasteland changing into rolling hills changing into towns with laughing, screaming people, the first street parties getting started as the coach rolled by. Outside his window, everything was blurring together in joyful abandonment, but the inside of the carriage was quiet, just him and his empty thoughts sitting in the same spot for the entire duration of the ride, past caring and nearly past comprehension.

Headquarters was in the same state of blissful euphoria, people whooping and embracing complete strangers, bottles of alcohol materializing from nowhere. Nobody at their post, nobody sent to greet him, and Ky figured he had to be suffering from some kind of shell-shock himself because the first thing that popped into his head at the realization was that it would be nice to use these few minutes of non-recognition for himself, and go for a walk.

It was almost funny, making his way to his room in the officers' wing without being interrupted, without running into some kind of aide or assistant ready to drag him off to a ballroom with a podium, when for years on end, he'd barely been able to take two steps without someone needing him to put out a fire. His room was the same as he'd left it months ago for what seemed like the last time then, neatly folded sheets and his old leather-bound copy of the Bible resting on the nightstand — part of the bundle any recruit got upon conscription; his with the name 'Castillo' scrawled at the bottom of the inside flap, a soldier nobody seemed to know, no matter how much he'd asked. A stack of stationery on the desk along with a cup and saucer, the porcelain so fine it was almost translucent, with a design of golden leaves curling along the rim — a gift from Kliff when they'd officially made him High Commander, and he hadn't had the heart to take it with him, knowing full well it wouldn't survive a day at the front lines.

Someone must have been coming in to air the place because the sheets smelled fresh and the furniture wasn't collecting dust. It made him conscious of his own appearance again, sweaty and disheveled with his uniform in various colors of gore, and since there was still nobody knocking on his door for a speech, he thought he might be able to delay the walk for a shower.

Even years later, he could still recall the feeling of standing under that spray, his mind blank but strangely clear, fixed on nothing but the pure bodily relief of hot water pounding on his sore muscles. A million questions hovering just out of reach, stowed away for a time when he could consider them, for a time when he could stop probing the tiles underfoot with his toes, trying to make sure they were real.

A clean uniform would be nice, he realized, absentmindedly rubbing his hair dry and noticing that the towel was coming away slightly pink, some kind of scratch reopening under the treatment. The closet yielded four spares, all spotlessly pressed, but for one reason or another he didn't really stop rummaging around after that, just folding things and placing them in the torn duffel bag he'd brought with him, everything he owned able to fit in next to a half-empty thermos and several envelopes stuffed with reports.

Nobody arrived to stop him, though he couldn't have said from what, his feet pointing him out the door and past the celebrating people, through the streets and the city gates, and down thirty-five miles of open forests and fields.

Kliff would joke about it later, about what he looked like curled up on the cabin doorstep, pale as death and fast asleep, but that was when Ky could stay awake for longer than five minutes at a time, long enough to realize that the reason Kliff's eyes were swimming wasn't due to his own sleep-blurred vision.

They didn't speak much, partly because Ky was still trying to adjust to having thoughts with substance again, and partly because the preparation of breakfast was a craft that demanded silence, Kliff shuffling back and forth in front of a banged-up stove, hunting through cabinets for honey and jam and flipping what looked like an old soldier's attempt at crêpes, two fingers thick and bloating at the center.

Ky could do little apart from keeping out of the way and watching, allowed to feel utterly useless for the first time in his life. There was mild wonder in the thought that someone was preparing breakfast for him, something that made him feel about four feet tall again, and when he finally remembered his manners and thought to help with setting the table, Kliff just grabbed his arm and drew him into a bearhug. They kept standing there, Ky's mind stupidly latching onto the thought of whether there were any rules for hugging a superior officer, and Kliff happily squeezing the air out of his lungs and muttering, "Deal with it," in an attempt to still a protest that never came.

The crêpes almost burned.

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* * *

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"She's not dead, Justice."

They were sitting at the table, him sopping up the jam with the last flap of mildly blackened crêpe and Kliff watching him with an indecipherable gaze, barely touching the food on his plate. There was something mildly absurd about discussing humanity's last stand between brioche and tea, real tea served in real cups with small engraved spoons, that part of Ky almost wanted to give into the urge to laugh.

"No," Kliff said, shaking his head ruefully.

Ky continued to swirl a piece of crêpe, leaving trails of apricot despite his best efforts. If Kliff knew, then he was either not as retired as he claimed to be, or this particular plan had existed for much longer than he was comfortable imagining.

"We were so close. So damn close," he whispered, jabbing the fork into the dough a bit more viciously than was proper, anger dangerously close to bubbling to the surface again. Seal the harbinger of destruction, imprison her in a neat little glass cage, to... what? To be kept safe for the rest of eternity?

_Let the key guns be mounted, make a brave show of waging war, and pry off the lid of Pandora's Box once more._

His gut twisted, a remarkable amount of room for fury inside him now, without Sol to be angry in his stead. He impaled the crêpe and chewed, glad to give his teeth something else to do except grinding.

Sol.

A new cavity ready to be flooded with anger, now that the relief was draining away. All this time he'd worried about having to face Sol on the battlefield, completely changed; constantly wondering what had happened, fearing that Justice had managed to find a way after all, and remembering the look he'd seen in the eyes of dying Gears from time to time, the fading impression of another presence looking out at him as the creature drew its last breath. And now, to think that Sol had simply left, had slipped out without so much as a hint or a goodbye, leaving him stranded in the middle of the apocalypse and trying to calculate whether he'd have to sacrifice another five battalions to an attempt at taking Sol down.

_Don't forget what he took, something you didn't even know was there, or you would've—_

Taken it for the cause.

Given it to Sol, even, because if there had ever been a man who would have been able to use it, it was him. But Sol had known or found out about the existence of another sword like the Furaiken, and hadn't thought to tell him. Hadn't trusted him enough to tell him, despite all the secrets he had grown to keep.

A part of Ky knew that it was stupid to be angry just because it was a personal matter, just because he'd been foolish enough to believe they had an understanding past any disagreements they might have had. Stupid, when Sol was far from the only guilty party. That sword had been hidden in the Order vaults, after all, kept a secret for reasons he couldn't even begin to fathom, when it could have been easily entrusted to a pair of capable hands to try and make a difference.

Then again, the Furaiken had been a secret in much the same way. Wrapped in silk and locked in a casing like an object of worship, to be transported from the ruins of Rome to the next safe location, and he'd had no idea what it was until the Gears had broken through their defenses to attack the caravan, and sent the sword spilling right into his lap. Ky had realized what it was the moment his fingers had wrapped around the hilt, had felt the thrum of power running through the length of the blade.

Even if he didn't comprehend the hows and whys, in that moment he had known he was holding an anti-Gear weapon in hand, an anti-Gear weapon someone upstairs had deliberately chosen not to make use of. Hadn't wanted to make use of, judging by the immediate demands for him to return it, and the pomp and ceremony that accompanied their change of heart. He suspected Kliff had more to do with him being allowed to keep the sword than he was letting on.

Briefly, his eyes strayed over to where the Furaiken was leaning against the wall, a memory of the caverns under Moscow rising unbidden in his mind.

_/Have you never thought about what's powering your fancy toothpick?/_

Sol had known, _known_ what the Furaiken was without ever touching it, and now, Ky couldn't help the feeling that he knew about everything else, too, how to align all the tiny bits of wrongness that lay scattered, pieces of a disturbing mosaic that just wouldn't add up. So much room for questions now that he had the time to ask them, and even more room for doubt, thoughts that would come back to haunt his sleepless nights. Had Sol known about the plan to seal Justice, too, or simply been so certain that Ky would fail?

Kliff had reached across the table, laying a reassuring hand on his forearm. He was smiling wanly, and Ky tried to smile in return, found that he couldn't.

"We could've taken her down. We could have, but they sent in that team to seal her, and I couldn't—" He drew a breath, pressed his lips together. "I'm sorry for disappointing you, sir."

Kliff stared at him, incredulity and a startling amount of pain lingering in his gaze. When Ky said nothing more, he shook his head, fingers squeezing his arm. "You've done more than enough, dear boy. More than enough."

"But..."

Another smile, this one faint and weighted by a lifetime of love and loss. "The only thing I ever wanted you to do, you already did."

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* * *

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Ky kept the uniform.

It went into his closet as soon as he had a closet and a few spare sets of clothing, the small house much too big for someone whose whole life could comfortably fit into a weather-worn duffel bag with room to spare. There was something strange about thinking of this as his own space, a place with four solid walls and a front door he could close on the world if he felt so inclined, though he never did. The sense of unreality stayed with him for a good long while, permeating even the smallest of tasks, like the fact that he could now go through an entire meal without interruption, or drift off to sleep regularly within a twenty-four-hour period and doze until dawn.

He woke up a lot, sometimes two or three times within the same hour, convinced it was time for his watch, and there were always those odd five minutes in the morning where the realization had to sink in that he was lying in bed, an actual bed with an actual mattress that he'd slept in while not injured and that he wouldn't have to roll up and carry a hundred miles. Sometimes, he ended up wasting a couple of moments just burrowing into the pillow, stretching until his toes curled and the sleepy satisfaction went spilling over into laughter. Sometimes, his feet still ended up feeling like blocks of ice, something not even three blankets and a woolen pair of socks could fix, and in those moments he missed the stupid quips and complaints about his frozen extremities as he wedged them between Sol's calves.

A lot of the empty space soon became populated by gifts people were leaving on his doorstep, gifts like a hand-embroidered table cloth or bunches of flowers, and if he strolled through the neighborhood, he was pretty certain he could have picked out the gardens they'd come from. Occasionally, there was a basket of 'testing samples' from the baker's daughter, and he still flushed at the thought that he must have seemed a tad too happy to discover their selection of fruit tartlets. At other times, he opened the door to the grandmotherly smile of a nun from the village convent, stopping by to deliver a crate of homegrown vegetables which, in her words, they couldn't possibly fit into the pantry.

He began to fill the rest of the space with books, still not entirely used to something as mundane as shopping, uninterrupted, ducking into a bookshop and scanning the cramped shelves for titles with the quickness of someone who expected not to be able to pick one up without a medium explosion getting in the way. Most of them were books he'd always wanted to read but had never had the time for, things like Milton and Rabelais and Camões, and some that simply looked interesting. Many were histories and etymologies, and the more he started digging through them, the more it became apparent that someone had ripped more than two hundred years from the memory of the world, and the only person who could conceivably tell him why was anywhere between here and half a globe away, and possibly in the process of getting himself blown to bits.

For the longest time, he was opening the paper expecting to read about a giant fireball going up in the middle a desert somewhere, and that'd be the end of that because if there was one thing Sol had always been good at, it was never doing things by halves.

Rumors were all he had to go by, rumors and the entry on a special wanted list with the sum of half a million saints and the words "dead or alive" attached to Sol's name, and Ky realized the only reason he had ever been able to walk out of the Order halls with the Furaiken strapped to his belt was that they hadn't deemed him a risk — pious, beloved, and entirely too visible to be of any concern. He started paying close attention to the bounty records after that, scanning the reports and soon noticing the patterns in the sea of claims, the kinds of marks that would have taken a couple of platoons to bring down. Never filed in the same spot, and that convinced him that something was going on more than anything, something beyond his reach or understanding. On some days, thoughts of the glass prison would rise to the forefront again and settle heavily in his stomach, watching people walking through the streets in the sunshine and thinking about the million possibilities to make the newfound lightness in their step disappear.

In a way, it was almost a relief to finally find some leads pointing towards Justice's revival, to be able to chase down her faithful general instead of being faced with his worst nightmare, that a bunch of idiots drunk on power or ambition or arrogance had thought to try and release her, hoping to use her as the gun trained on the temple of humanity. He'd thought being allowed to end it would take a load off his mind, to accomplish what should have happened years ago, sweat and blood soaking the old uniform once again, listening to the staccato of their breaths in the settling dust, one ragged with exhaustion, the other with the pulse of life fading from the body.

Then, she looked at him, and everything changed.

One great hand curling to push herself up, to be able to fix him with those golden cat-slit eyes in a way she hadn't regarded him during the entire battle, and Ky knew then that she had no idea who he was, that nothing he had ever done meant the slightest thing to her, except that he was the person to witness her final moments.

"Come to gloat, little human?"

Her voice was like nothing he'd ever heard in his life, deep and high all at once, resonating inside his chest.

"No. To mourn."

A flicker in those eyes, and then, the air was filled with a low rumbling like stones rattling inside a metal box, a sound that built until it was reverberating through the ruined hall of the Gear plant, and it took Ky a moment to realize— Justice was laughing.

He stared, couldn't help himself, watching as her entire frame shook, spasms wracking her outburst of merriment. Of all the things he had expected from a conversation with the devil, this wasn't it, and past anything he'd heard or read or thought about Justice, he couldn't help but wonder what lay beyond that shell-like armor, whether there wasn't something that could have been brought out with the quiet hum of a cracked, red headband.

"...Where did they breed you, child, that you can still speak of honor and..." She drew a shuddering breath, amusement evaporating, a sharp curiosity lighting in her gaze. "...and mean it."

"It's how it should be," he said softly, not quite sure why he felt the need to explain himself and yet unable to shake the feeling that beyond anything she had done, she could still understand.

Justice shook her head, a motion that formerly would have sent the great mane of hair swaying from side to side, but barely stirred it now. "You should triumph while you can. It's a victory you've won, but it's a small victory indeed."

Ky narrowed his eyes, unsettled. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't tell me your kind still believe in those... silly stories." A pause, and he couldn't tell whether she was deliberating or struggling to form the words. "...You really think... this is all about you, don't you. What if I told you... I couldn't care less about your race?"

"Then I would have to ask what it is you care about," he said, amazed at the steadiness in his own voice, when his fingers were gripping the hilt of his sword like a vise.

"...Have you ever dreamed of sleeping, and when you woke you were still... trapped in the nightmare?"

"Yes."

For a moment, Ky was certain that if she could have, she would have been smiling, a small, pitying smile. "Tell me, child... if you had to choose... be a slave to a mirage, or shatter Heaven and Earth to get to the truth... would you?"

He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry at the implications, lips moving of their own accord. "...not like this."

"You will know... soon enough... what it takes. I'm not the worst that could have happened to the world... I never was."

"Then what is? !"

He couldn't help the edge of desperation creeping into his tone, something in him clenching at the thought of more than a century of war being a mere means to an end, an end preferable to whatever would come in its stead.

"It will continue unhindered now... always... as long as That Man still lives." A breathy chuckle, her voice little more than a whisper now. "I hope you don't mind losing sleep, little boy."

Ky wasn't sure how long he stood there, gazing down at Justice's prone body, unable to think and unable to speak, the only movement the gusts of wind, scattering flakes of dust and ash. His hand rose, searching for the outline of the golden cross beneath his coat, not quite steady enough to pull out the necklace, squeezing the pendant through the folds of fabric. And it was then that he knew, as he was groping through his mind for the first lines of a prayer, that the uniform would stay where it was, waiting for the day he would have to wear it once again.

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-TBC-

**A/N:** So yeah, when I said asskick would be happening now? Ky had other ideas, apparently. Next chapter, promise. XD

FFN is making it harder and harder for me to format things, taking out linebreaks and punctuation. (sigh) Thanks go to Tofu for keeping me in line. Thoughts and comments are appreciated, as always.

Now, for the small stuff:  
- Should be pretty obvious that I'm twisting a few things here. I just prefer my Ky and Justice smart, and this ending had so much potential in the original game. As for the multiple-endings-but-what-about-Sol, let's just say Sol had his chat with Justice back in the war, when he was trying to defeat her. xD  
- Saints are the colloquial term for the official Order currency (multinational armies want to be paid) that works across borders. I know the dramas have the World Dollar, but that kind of requires the world to be not nearly as broken as it would be after almost two hundred years of global warfare.  
- "Let the key guns be mounted" is a line from a poem by Amy Lowell. Don't ask me how Ky knows 20th century poetry when they erased the records. *shrug* It's pretty.  
- "Weapons are the tools of fear; a decent man will avoid them, except in direst necessity, and, if compelled, will use them only with the utmost restraint. [...] He enters a battle gravely, with sorrow and with great compassion, as if he were attending a funeral," from the Tao Te Ching. It struck me as very Ky.  
-


	5. Chapter 5

**Title:** Going off the Record  
**Part:** 5/?  
**Fandom:** Guilty Gear  
**Characters:** Ky, Sol, and the obligatory cameos  
**Rating:** PG-15  
**Warnings:** Alternate Timeline beginning around GGX  
**Summary:** Ky strengthens his resolve, we finally meet the elusive Doctor Meirth, and things still don't explode. Yeah, I should just stop making promises.

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**Going off the Record**

_Chapter V_**  
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_I know our antebellum innocence  
Was never meant to see the light of our armistice day._

_~ Vienna Teng, Antebellum_

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.

Two years.

It was a bit hard to believe that it had really been two years. The day he'd last opened the door to the tiny closet seemed so very far away, the knob under his fingers creaking when he gripped it too hard, the white fabric strangely heavy in his hands, seeking to slip to the floor. And yet, when he was snapping latches and buckles closed with an ease born from routine, feeling the cool spread of the overcoat drape around his shoulders, clenching and unclenching his fingers in the confines of the well-worn gloves, it was as if no time had passed at all, as if the walls of his bedroom had vanished and been replaced by the whisper of a tent flap swaying in the wind, and if he turned, he would find his work cut out for him, clear and straightforward with no room for doubt or worry.

The illusion dispersed once he turned, the weight of his decision settling like another layer on the familiar flow of the coat.

Outside, the air was still warm and fragrant, the Parisian gardens scattering their scents in the evening breeze, the streets still lively, lanterns slowly being lit along the house fronts and stalls. Thankfully, no one seemed to take any special notice, most people too absorbed in their own private happiness to pay any heed to the walking anachronism that quietly passed them by, the momentary smile on his lips faltering at the thought that everything seemed like a veil, that the people with their laughter and tavern songs felt like a flimsy roll of gauze, stretched taut over something else entirely, something that was slowly prying the threads apart.

Shaking his head, Ky tried to push the idea aside.

Kliff had wanted him to think, always, to consider every piece of information right down to the earth and sand crunching underneath his boots, but to never take anything more than those thoughts out onto the battlefield, where everything else would be consumed and burn away, or possibly rise up to consume his men instead. Useful advice, comforting, even, to know that once the battle ended, everything of himself would still be there, locked in an unseen trunk, and if he so wished, he could use the spare moments to unlock the trunk again, snatch up the biting coil of anger and let it slip back into his veins for a few brief seconds, allow sadness to pool in his heart, or hold up joy like a sparkling gem and feel glad, so glad, for the people whose lives he had touched that day, and who had touched his in return.

Vital advice, allowing him to see things for what they were, to stand tall and make his decisions without losing sight of the important things, and now, it allowed him to cast off the paralysis like a useless garment, to stow rage and betrayal in the farthest recesses of his mind, to push away the clamor of disbelief and horrified fascination that kept asking "why why why," in an endless, useless chorus.

_Study the field. Consider your options. Calculate the possible outcomes._

Kahren had seemed sincere, startlingly so, with the kind of direct gaze found in children and idealists, a confidence born from a purity of one's motives. She had built weapons, and had gone in knowing that this was what she would do, making peace with her own heart. All the more curious to see her crumble, then, to watch her fold in on herself until she seemed more girl than woman, struggling for words and composure. If it was an act, it was the most convincing he'd seen in a long time, lacking all the little idiosyncrasies that tended to give it away, the wrong notes, the practiced roll in the gestures.

And an act for what? His forgiveness? His trust? Both would imply a certain blindness; he was in no position to object to or halt the project, and Kahren certainly hadn't appeared very sure of her sales pitch. In fact, she had seemed like someone who desperately wanted an excuse to run away rather than explain to her unwitting research specimen that she had earned her money violating his dignity for any manner of so-called greater good.

If her guilt was real, though, had she simply hoped not to meet him, or not to be the one to break the news to him?

A memory came floating back to him as he walked, fragments of a conversation spoken in the gloom of his tent, and Sol's voice, caustic and bitter despite the warmth of the blankets. "Scientists... don't give a rat's ass about reality. They make up their own where they don't have to bother with all the pesky questions. Show them true reality, and they'll run screaming, pleading for the innocence of their immortal soul."

Ky couldn't remember what he'd said in response, whether he'd said anything at all or whether he'd simply turned, looked over his shoulder to study the expression on Sol's face, indecipherable and far away.

Was Kahren like that, content as long as she could live only by her own convictions, but unable to face that her project concerned real people, real lives with pasts and futures that had nothing to do with numbers on paper? Difficult to imagine, then, that she had chosen to come along, that she wouldn't have tried to distance herself and avoid the consequences of her involvement. And if it hadn't been her decision, if her discomfort had been real and her actions unexpected, not preplanned... then maybe the shadow of fear darting across her face hadn't been for him at all, but for the voice rising tinnily from her radio, amused as if it had known that Ky was powerless to stop them.

If Kahren was not in control, neither of her own emotions nor of the project, then someone else was, someone who had withdrawn from the confrontation to observe — not just him, but also his own people, someone who had known what was going to happen and had wanted to see it unfold. And if this setup had been deliberate, planned and acted out to satisfy mere curiosity, then none of the events leading up to it — the needless secrecy, the theatrics of the Church, the involvement of the government — had been a matter of chance. Someone had known which strings to pull, and how, just enough to see each party rush ahead with their own plans, and scramble to cover them up when they failed.

_Determine the objectives. Negotiate the needs of the individual parties. Smile benignly and pretend you don't know what's going on._

Autonomous, artificial warriors. The very concept was alien, despite all the times he'd run into blacktech, despite all the foreign devices he'd turned over in his hands while listening to Sol's disgruntled, half-censored explanations. Some he'd understood, most he hadn't, but it had mattered little; Sol knew, somehow, and that was good enough, had to be enough at a time when he'd been forced to devote his mind to other things. It was just one of the things Ky had never asked about because he'd known he wouldn't receive an answer, might have even run the risk of losing his only source of information if he tried. Now, it made him wonder more than ever about the world that had crumbled into dust almost two centuries ago, and what its inhabitants had been capable of; whether they, too, had raised golems from metal and wire and taught them how to walk.

Hope.

He had been the last; part of the last batch Kliff had trained personally, and the last of that batch to remain standing, and so it had fallen to him to carry, always, to become the pillar of stability humanity so desperately needed. It had become par for the course after a little while to discover his face on recruitment posters he'd never been informed about, to see his signature under speeches he'd never written, to find his existence reconstructed into the image of a divine savior. The Order's propaganda cult had never ceased to bother him, not least because it seemed like a tactical mistake, but he had learned to use the influence it gave him; to ask for favors in the right places, to forge connections, to champion unity where otherwise, there would have only been discord. At the end of the day, he couldn't honestly say that he had come to regret it, not for the hundreds of lives it had saved in turn.

This, though, was different. Machines with his features, his name, and, supposedly, his abilities. In the war, he might have considered such a project more readily, might have seen it as a chance to reduce loss and human sacrifice, but now... what need was there? An unstable world, to be sure, an uncertain future, and another dozen good intentions that might have swayed someone like Kahren, whose motives truly did seem innocent. And yet...

Ennui.

The word was a gauntlet, thrown to the ground in front of his feet as surely as it was carved upon the belt plaques. A threat, or perhaps a warning, something meant specifically for him, but again, for what purpose?

Sol had liked to call him ignorant of his own position, for all the times he'd protested being treated as special, but he would've had to be blind and stupid not to realize what kind of power he held, what kind of influence he could exert, if he so desired. The kind of influence he _had_ exerted, to make reports disappear, to circumvent orders whenever it proved necessary. That was something to be feared or envied, surely, but now, after so many years...

The law of the courts was hardly the law of war, and the police wasn't the army. If it was about revenge, someone hoping to put him in his place, it certainly came late, and a threat... what was important enough to warrant something as outlandish, as downright bizarre as an array of metal automatons?

_Oh, I don't know. Snooping around in the archives, keeping tabs on the Order, sheltering Gears... take your pick. Justice was willing to annihilate the human race just to get at whatever she was afraid of, whatever makes you think that anything here is going to make sense?_

If someone was hoping for a shot at Sol, they were certainly barking up the wrong tree. And the girl... was safe. He'd reported her dead, faked the evidence, had made Sfondi swear on his life that he'd be responsible and keep her out of sight, because that was better than locking her up for the rest of her life. Sfondi would have sent word if there was something amiss with his children; in that, at least, he could trust the man.

And this... this wasn't a short-term project. This was complex science, not something hastily cobbled together in response to his actions. Something that must have taken years and years of planning and patience, and Ky was getting the distinct feeling that the whole charade was a part of it, too. Someone knew the value of sending a pawn out on the chessboard as a sacrifice, in order to bait the other player into making his move.

To what end, he wasn't sure. Unless...

Ennui.

Maybe it really was as simple as that.

.

* * *

.

Marble demanded composure.

It didn't lend itself well to running, or to a gait swayed by emotion, every tap of a person's feet able to reveal their mind and character. The confident ones who would let their steps echo, the worriers whose steps would falter every so often, the sycophants who always took care not to be heard or seen. The only way to walk on marble was to tread lightly and hold one's head high, to betray nothing, and to Ky, the resounding emptiness of a great building had always had a soothing effect, the halls so much vaster and older than any single human. It wasn't unlike stepping into a church, taking in the frescoes and the gold-rimmed statues, to inhale the scent of incense and feel a sense of serenity at the thought of the many lives that had passed through the aisles long before he'd ever come along.

Here, though, there was no incense, just the faint smell of floor wax and aged tapestry, hunting scenes and classical stories unfolding along the walls as he walked. Even through the war, the Louvre had lost nothing of its grandeur, its sprawling corridors and archways lit by hundreds of gas lights, their soft orange glow reflecting off the polished stone. From a distance, Ky could already hear the first notes of a dance tune, the ballroom orchestra warming up for a long evening, but they were muted by the many twists and turns, not really detracting from the sound of his own feet, measured and subdued, allowing the calm to settle in his chest completely, unable to be dislodged.

"It's a _what_?"

The yell was enough to startle him, the familiar voice cutting through the air like a gunshot. Frowning, he set off down another corridor, his steps quickening when the shouting only seemed to grow in volume the longer he went.

In all the time Ky had known him, he'd never heard Andreyev raise his voice towards anyone. He'd read the reports, of course, had seen the file clippings with the fairly impressive array of red ink stamps marking official reprimands, remarks on his temper, his questionable loyalty, and a detailed note on an incident that once got him busted back to private, wherein he'd apparently threatened a CO to turn him into Gear feed if he didn't order an immediate retreat. Yet the man who had eventually found his way under his command had always seemed the exact opposite of what the files made him out to be, quiet and collected, someone who could be trusted to carry out an order to the letter, no matter how difficult or hazardous it was.

Now, though, it seemed like Ky had merely never given him cause for objection, a string of Russian expletives he couldn't even begin to translate echoing through the pair of thick oak doors to the office they had staked out as a retreat for personnel on break.

"_/You goddamn son of a— no, no you listen/_!" And then he seamlessly lapsed back into French, his accent growing more pronounced the more livid he became. "We have a goddamn right to know what's going on here! I want to know who's responsible for giving these bastards diplomatic immunity! No! No, I don't bloody care about your treaties! We're not in your jurisdiction so if we want these fucking tin men dismantled, then we'll fucking get a court to do it!"

A brief pause to draw a breath, and then, "Oh, don't you start with that bullshit, you bureaucratic _/fuckwit/_. I don't care who the hell you're friends with, if these things do anything, anything at all, then so help me I'll—!"

The dial tone stopped his erratic pacing.

Hissing another curse, Andreyev slammed the receiver down on the cradle with enough force to crack the casing, grinding his knuckles against the wood of the antique desk.

Ky closed the door behind himself, but Andreyev didn't even acknowledge his entrance, drawing slow, shuddering breaths in an effort to rein himself in. Seeing the man so beside himself made him truly realize just how much strain the entire mess was placing on Andreyev, someone who had managed to face down wave after wave of grotesqueries without ever flinching. Loath as he was to admit it, just unveiling those machines was a genius strike in its own right, before anything ever came to pass — a blindside not just against him, but against everyone who knew him, everyone tied to him in some manner — friendship, gratitude, faith.

_How many people... how many people will have cause for fear and anguish, no matter what it's used for? How many lives did I affect, whether I meant to or not?_

Shoving the thought aside, he came closer, already knowing full well that he wouldn't be able to reassure Andreyev like most of his men, not with all the time they'd spent together. "...Lieutenant? What's the matter?"

Andreyev whipped around, the angry flush rapidly receding from his cheeks when he realized just who his audience was. Groaning, he collapsed back against the desk, digging his fingers through his hair. "You... heard that, huh, sir."

"It was a bit hard not to," Ky said, sure that the gentle reproach would elicit more remorse than necessary, allowing a hint of teasing to slip into his tone. "Do I want to know who's meant to be doing what to those cows?"

"I... you... I'm sorry, sir." Andreyev rubbed a hand across his eyes, still groping for some semblance of control. "I know that's not... acceptable conduct, but... just... _/damn it it all to hell/_."

"_/It's still a bit early for that/_," Ky said, leaning forward to get a good look at his face. "Now... what happened? Who was that?"

"...the Ministry, sir."

"The Ministry?"

Sighing, Andreyev continued rubbing at his eyes, the lines of worry and fatigue plainly visible now that his anger was draining away. "Vaillant's office. They got wind of us trying to check the visas and... weren't happy."

"I see. I'm not sure anything can surprise me anymore, after this afternoon." Ky picked up the handset, futilely trying to reattach the broken receiver. "Don't worry, Lieutenant. I'm sure we'll get something figured out soon enough. The less we react to this circus, the better. Let's just concentrate on the things right in front of us, alright?"

Andreyev lifted his head, giving him an incredulous stare. "How can you be so calm, sir? You've... you've _seen_ those things, they're— for Christ's sake, they're trying to sell the goddamn things as the future peacekeeping force! _Peacekeeping_, sir!"

"I know, Lieutenant." Ky set the broken receiver aside to lay a hand on his shoulder. "Believe me, I know. But indulging in personal feelings won't change the situation. I know that this... experiment is unsettling, and we're right to be on edge, but no matter how hard it'll be, I need you to keep your wits, Lieutenant. I need you to be exactly as I know you, if we want to get anywhere. Someone is playing with us, and the only way to avoid that is to avoid taking the bait."

Drawing a deep breath, Andreyev nodded. "...Understood, sir. I'll do my best."

"Thank you." Ky smiled, and set about putting the desk in order, gathering up the scattered papers. "Now, then. Any good news from your end?"

"None whatsoever, sir," Andreyev said bitterly. "They're holding so tight it might as well be the new national secret. I can't even get them to cough up the guy who approved their visas, never mind anything else. If I have to hazard a guess, I'd say that was an agreement behind closed doors over a nice dinner and a glass of champagne."

"I suspected as much, but thank you for trying."

"Just... I don't understand it. With the huge deal they're making... If they want to hide something, they're sure doing a poor job of it. It's like covering up someone's tracks by stomping all over them with steel boots. It doesn't make any sense."

"It does, if someone wants to prove a point," Ky said, pushing a stack of notes back into a folder. "That team obviously has a lot of funding from influential places, so if their great reveal is a success..."

"They'll have buyers."

"Exactly. So why not let the buyers work themselves into a frenzy trying to protect their investment? If you ask me, someone was looking to see a good show, and so far, we've all performed our parts admirably."

Andreyev paused, frowning deeply. "Sir... you think that's why those things look—"

Ky shook his head, and decided not to mention that any kind of public humiliation was the least of his concerns. "I don't know. But they're trying to rattle us pretty badly, and the best way to do that is to stand up and show their colors."

"You don't think—"

"I'm not sure," Ky murmured. "Someone wants us to pay attention to them very badly. One has to wonder why."

When there was no answer, he sealed the folder and handed it back to Andreyev, before motioning to accompany him to the exit. "At any rate, blind guesses aren't going to help us. I, for one, am interested in seeing whether the elusive Doctor Meirth has recovered enough to join the reception."

He held open the door for Andreyev to pass through, but the man hadn't moved away from the desk, staring at Ky's uniform as if seeing it for the first time.

"Sir, you're going to... I mean, like this?"

Ky smiled coolly. "Sometimes, Lieutenant, the best way to rattle someone is to stand up and show your colors."

.

* * *

.

If there was one thing Andreyev had never grown used to, it was the formal song and dance at parties. The tangle of regulations and protocol left him baffled and feeling out of place, wondering how on Earth people could spend so much time outlining who could talk to whom and when, how deep to bow, how long to look, and what to say. Honesty, he'd learned rather quickly, wasn't appreciated, when a couple of curious nobles inquired about life at the front lines, and were less than enthused to learn that it had precious little to do with polished steeds and waving banners. Usually, Andreyev was grateful whenever he got relegated from being 'the lieutenant' to being 'the Commander's escort,' as that allowed him to stay mostly out of the way, and possibly snatch a bite to eat.

He'd never mastered the art of eternal disgruntlement the way Badguy had, sticking out like a sore thumb but getting a wide berth whenever he deigned to move from his position against the wall, and he'd most certainly never mastered the ease with which the Commander navigated that human minefield, dispensing smiles and niceties as if he'd been born into that kind of standing.

This particular banquet left him feeling ill at ease for much the same reasons, even if he was now more worried about embarrassing the Commander than embarrassing himself. The hot sting of shame was still fresh enough to make him flush anew each time he thought back to the phone call, how easy it had been to drive him over the edge with a few well-placed threats and insinuations, reducing him to a pile of incoherent rage for the Commander to walk in on.

Not the high point of his career, but it was driving him crazy not to be able to see his enemies, to neither know their motives nor their true faces. With Gears, there wasn't anything _to_ know, just four dozen razor-sharp fangs and claws the size of a man's trunk, and you could see them lunging at you from a mile off, dust and spittle spraying everywhere. Inquisitors were much the same, pedantry on two legs armed with a rule book and a pile of forms, and even if you couldn't always see them coming, you could certainly see them leaving, red-faced with fume billowing out their ears.

This, though, was entirely too much like hunting snakes in the potato fields back home; whenever you got one, a new one would slither out from underfoot, seeking to slip into your pants leg and forcing you to drop the one you were currently holding. Some kind of sick jab at the Commander, that's what it was, something that would eventually leap up to bite them in the ass, and he hated how he couldn't even get his mind to wrap around the concept — robots, that woman had called them robots, machines to stand in for man.

The Commander, of course, knew more than he was letting on, and Andreyev couldn't shake the feeling that it was connected to all the times he'd disappeared, alone, left on short notice only to come back a week later, battered and exhausted with something brittle shining through his reassuring face. All the times he'd handed Andreyev sealed documents to place in a hidden safe, in secret and good faith. He'd never looked inside, though now he was wondering if he should have, should have just torn them open so that the Commander could stop keeping secrets like the war had never ended, placing others' happiness above his own well-being.

They'd never been harmless secrets, simple secrets, and he could admit that the thought of this being bigger than it already was scared him, because if there was something big enough to worry the Commander, then it was likely to send a lesser man run screaming. Andreyev wasn't sure how much of a lesser man he was, but he'd thought about trying to find out often enough. After all, they couldn't all be like Badguy, who'd call a blazing inferno a bit warm and complain about boredom in the middle of the apocalypse, but that didn't mean they couldn't try.

He thought about trying now, as he was watching the Commander make the rounds, shaking hands, nodding pleasantly, ignoring the stares his uniform received. It should have been easy to take him aside and ask him to explain, because there was no way this wasn't going to blow up in their faces in the most spectacular manner, and when it did, it would hit the Commander hardest of all.

But the Commander would just smile, wouldn't he, the way he always did, smile and say that everything would be alright, because there was no way to change his mind once it was made up, and that made prying pointless; tactless, because it would force him to lie on top of everything else.

Heaving a sigh, Andreyev scanned the ballroom once again, trying to ease the knot in the pit of his stomach by observing the crowd. The ballroom had been split neatly in two, one end occupied by the delegates and the other by the research staff, people busy with their drinks and trying to avoid mingling with anyone from the 'other side,' the scientists in particular making sour faces whenever they were forced to talk to somebody who seemed to have no clue about their studies. Andreyev understood scientists about as well as he understood politicians, a haughty lot wrapped up in grandiloquent theories they couldn't be bothered to relate to their fellow human beings, but the Commander seemed to get along with them well enough, judging by the kid in the ill-fitting suit jacket who had now grabbed onto his hand, babbling and making sweeping gestures with his other arm the whole while.

Eventually, the Commander broke away from the congregation, moving to join him on the fringes of the ballroom.

"He got conscripted two weeks before the war ended, and now he's growing cold-resistant tomatoes," the Commander said, lips quirking in amusement as the kid scuttled back to his team, who looked just about ready to smack the grin off his face.

"I guess they do come in all flavors," Andreyev said, sweeping the open set of wing doors on the far side that remained, predictably, empty. "No sign of them yet, sir."

"As expected." The Commander folded his arms, backing up against one of the stenciled columns.

"You'd think they'd want to socialize."

"I don't think they care about contacts," Sir Kiske said, directing a polite nod of recognition at a former Lieutenant Commander turned Polish delegate. "Somebody just loves playing games, is all."

Andreyev looked at him, taking in his posture, the set of his jaw, not a trace of tension in the way he moved or spoke despite the fact that he couldn't possibly be comfortable. It was at times like this that he found himself wishing he could do the same thing, just shut off his responses and focus on the bare essentials, instead of counting down the minutes in his head and repeatedly flexing his fingers over the hilt of his sword, reducing the weapon to a type of deadly security blanket.

"You mean, that woman...?"

"I'm not sure, Lieutenant. I'm not sure. Whatever's going on, she's certainly involved, whether she wants to face it or not."

Andreyev didn't reply, not with part of him still longing to grab the next convenient person and shake some answers out of them, and not when he was looking back upon the morning with a certain childish nostalgia, trying to recall the feeling of when all they'd been worried about had been some kind of maniac with a grudge and a knife or a grudge and a fire spell, and the only inconveniences had taken the form of prissy diplomats and an unreasonable festival committee. It was this kind of thinking, he knew, that made him a poor candidate for the Commander's absolute trust, when he was trying to run away from something as banal as a confrontation with some no-name scientists. Not exactly confidence-inspiring as far as earth-shattering revelations went.

Then, his gaze fell upon the entrance again, and he stopped.

"...well, speak of the devil."

.

* * *

.

Even without knowing who she was, Lara Kahren stood out, her simple, dark dress in stark contrast to both the colorful decor of the ballroom and the other guests. She was lingering next to the reception desk, alternately smoothing out and twisting a lock of hair around her fingers as she waited to have her invite approved, a small, nervous gesture that belied her stance and bearing. When she caught sight of them, she froze momentarily, her eyes darting around for something else to focus on, but finding herself out of an excuse to stall. The receptionist returned her invite, pointing out various locations, but by then, Kahren seemed to have decided that there was no avoiding the inevitable, because she only nodded distractedly, and headed towards them.

"Sir Kiske." She bowed slightly, the tension visible in the set of her shoulders, as if a part of her was expecting to face repercussions despite the fact that she knew, had to know that neither she nor her group could be touched by the law. "...Lieutenant."

Andreyev didn't return the greeting; the only thing he could trust himself with was a curt nod. He'd never been able to deal with the polite sort that kept their intentions behind flourishes and pretty turns of phrases, and he was nowhere near as willing as Sir Kiske to just grant people patience and understanding.

"Doctor." The Commander inclined his head, watching the surprise flit across Kahren's face at his pleasant tone. "I trust you had no trouble finding your way here?"

"...No. No, not at all." She hesitated. "Doctor Meirth will be along shortly. He... fears that our introductions got off on the wrong foot, so he asked me to answer any questions you might have in the meantime."

She tried for a smile, but it didn't want to come out quite right, and Andreyev had to fight against the sudden urge to laugh. Send in a beautiful woman to smooth the ruffled feathers, trust that chivalry would let her off the hook. The oldest trick in the book, and it was a bit hard to believe that Kahren could really be that clueless, clueless enough to assume such an unsuspecting tone.

The Commander didn't reply, his gaze turning inward instead, and in the prolonged silence, Kahren pressed her lips together, frowning unhappily. "I... I should apologize, as well. For handling the situation so poorly. I didn't intend to upset your subordinates. Or you."

"Calling ahead might have helped with that," Andreyev said, sarcasm thick in his tone. He'd promised himself to stay silent and let the Commander do the talking, but it was growing harder and harder with every new apologia, each flimsier than the last. What had she thought would happen, really, if she lifted the curtain on some kind of mechanical mockery of the world's most beloved person?

Kahren shook her head. "I realize that now. But..."

"But?"

"But when we first set out, we didn't even know if it was possible. You just... have an idea, and then you try to find the means to make that idea reality. We knew that what we were trying to do would seem frightening to many people. Our worlds might be different, but we aren't..." She paused, and turned to the Commander. "You have to understand, Sir Kiske. Our countries might have opted for different paths, but we want the same things. There's so much we don't know. So much we don't understand. Surely you've noticed by now how much there is missing."

"It is difficult not to," the Commander agreed, and Andreyev paused for a moment.

It was hard not to interest the Commander in something, no matter how small and mundane it might be, but he seemed to like the tough cases the best, things that didn't readily reveal their true nature, and privately, Andreyev suspected that that was at least half the reason for the relationship he'd forged with Badguy. This, though, was a bit more than mere interest, and if the Commander was talking about it so casually, then that meant he'd been looking around, digging for clues to the lost past.

For his part, Andreyev had never seen the sense in thinking too much about it, as forward had always been the only way to go, the only way to keep going. Now, though, he was starting to wonder.

Kahren nodded. "We're not... I know the things they say about us, but we don't... we don't _know_, either. All we have are these fragments, and we're trying to work with them the best we can. And we can't get anywhere with things as they are... there's so much chaos in this world. Barely a week goes by that we don't get a Gear warning, that there isn't some kind of squabble about resources. But if we had something to maintain a balance, keep the peace... there's so much we could accomplish. All of us, together. That was the idea behind the project, anyway."

Her fingers had found a strand of hair again, smoothing over it repetitively, subconsciously.

"A noble goal, certainly. And not easy to reach," the Commander said slowly, and Andreyev was pretty sure he hadn't imagined the undercurrent of criticism.

Judging from Kahren's reaction, she had misunderstood, because she nodded again, happy that he seemed to agree. "People are frightened by change, so... we thought this might put them at ease. I can't excuse our conduct, but we were worried about the kinds of reactions it would garner. Our countries aren't exactly on speaking terms, and..." She paused again, and when she spoke again, her voice was quiet. "All I can say is... we meant well."

"...That's your reason?" Andreyev burst out, unable to help himself. Of all the inane, stupid things to say, it had to be this one, like the Commander wasn't a person but some kind of all-purpose tool that you could just take and throw at a problem, to let him work his magic. "He's done it once, he might as well do it again?"

"I—"

"Lieutenant."

"I'd really like to know why you thought anyone in their right mind would be okay with this. I don't know how it is in your country, but here, there's—"

"_Lieutenant_."

The quiet, stern voice broke through his tirade, causing the words to shrivel and die on his tongue. The Commander was looking him in the eye, his expression sympathetic but unrelenting. "_/Please, calm yourself./_"

Sucking in a breath, Andreyev lowered his gaze, shame flooding back to override his anger. "_/I'm sorry, sir./_ I just find it hard to believe that that's— I mean, that can't be the reason."

"And the lieutenant would be correct," a new voice said, startling him enough to actually slip the sword an inch from its sheath before he could stop himself.

A thin, lanky man had approached them from behind, his piercing gray eyes lighting up at their reactions. He was dwarfed by another man, whose massive bulk was already subject to a fair amount of stares and whispers from the crowd. He was hunching forward, his head seeking to disappear between his bulging shoulders in a vain attempt at making himself smaller, but even if he had somehow managed, there was no way to make the fetters disappear, large, metal rings surrounding his wrists and neck.

A slave soldier.

Andreyev had heard about them, but like with so many stories about Zepp, he'd never seen one, men of unbelievable strength and stature bred purely for the battlefield in an attempt to match the power of the Gears. It had sounded all too fantastical even in a world that managed to produce giant, lightning-spewing aardvarks, one of those fairytales that sprung up whenever people ran out of bizarre topics for conversation. The man before him now didn't look at all like the mental images he'd used to roll his eyes at, though, almost bursting out of his suit and painfully aware of how out of place he was, his eyes shifting uneasily from side to side, as if to excuse his size.

"I apologize for my tardiness," the gray-eyed man said, making him jump once again. The guy had been watching the Commander the entire time, he realized, furious with himself for not paying attention, allowing himself to fall for such a basic lure.

"These magnificent halls simply demanded further inspection." The man smiled, and nodded appreciatively towards the gilded stucco. "It is a bit hard not to act like a tourist, when one finally gets the opportunity to travel."

The lie was an obvious one, but the man didn't even care enough to make an effort at being convincing, more interested in observing others' responses than in concealing the truth. Kahren already seemed to know, because she straightened self-consciously, unraveling the lock of hair from her fingers and brushing it past her shoulder.

"Allow me to make the introductions. Sir Kiske, this is our project leader, Doctor Meirth. Doctor, Sir Kiske and Lieutenant Andreyev."

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you in person," Meirth said, reaching out to shake the Commander's hand. "Though—" And he threw a surreptitious glance at Andreyev, "—it certainly feels we've known each other... much longer than that."

Andreyev stiffened, almost unable to believe that the guy could really be that brazen, but Kahren's slight wince told him all he needed to know. The Commander only raised an eyebrow, but Meirth just smiled again, as if satisfied with his lack of reaction.

"I'm sure you have lots of questions. I'll gladly answer what my assistant hasn't managed to."

"As a matter of fact," the Commander said, "Who is the gentleman with you? I fear we haven't been introduced yet."

A quick look at his face revealed that he was utterly serious, waiting for an answer as if everything else constituted mere trivialities.

"Well." Meirth blinked, and half-turned to his escort. "We were advised to take a bodyguard with us. The journey from Zepp is quite dangerous, after all. Now, then, if you will—"

But the Commander had already stepped forward, holding out his hand to the giant as if his presence wasn't the least bit surprising or unusual. And then, as if nobody could be expected to know who he was, "Ky Kiske. Welcome to Paris."

The giant was staring at him as if he'd grown another head, silent and unmoving, his gaze flickering from the Commander's face to his hand as if unsure what to do with it.

"...I know," he said eventually, when it became evident that the Commander wouldn't back down, the words a low rumbling sound emanating from deep inside his chest. "We all... did, in the battalion."

"I still regret that we never fought together," the Commander said, smiling. "I've heard much of your bravery. Might I ask your name?"

"GC-578-A— Potemkin. It is an honor," the giant replied, and, with a last questioning glance, gingerly took the outstretched hand between his thumb and index finger, each digit as thick as a man's forearm. He didn't dare to shake it properly, just holding onto it for a brief moment, before awkwardly withdrawing his hand.

"The honor is mine. I do hope we will get the opportunity to speak later," the Commander said, before returning his attention to the rest of them, and Andreyev could only console himself with the fact that as stupid as his own face had to look, at least this had succeeded in wiping the self-assured grin off Meirth's face, as well.

After a while, Meirth cleared his throat. "Well, Sir Kiske, you certainly are as they say."

"And what would that be, Doctor?" the Commander asked, a sudden, barely perceptible sharpness to his amiable expression.

"That you are a fascinating man," Meirth said, taking a moment to look him up and down. "I like it when people surprise me. It makes things so much less predictable."

"You certainly seem to live by your philosophy."

_I believe the technical term is 'being an ass', sir,_ Andreyev thought, but didn't say anything. The Commander was playing hardball now, something iron behind his eyes that only Meirth didn't seem to recognize, because he was able to keep looking him in the eye.

"Forgive me. I find politics immensely dull, that's why I try to bother with them as little as possible. And that's why I fear my considerations are much less... lofty than my colleague's. I am only interested in results." Meirth paused, directing another sidelong glance at Kahren, who flushed at having her ideals mocked. "And the only thing that yields the best results are the best people."

"I am sure," the Commander said, "that there are many capable people in Zepp."

"Modesty becomes you, Sir Kiske, but it is unnecessary. I fear going into detail would find us here a week hence, but... suffice it to say that robotics — machines — are all about perfection. If a machine is not perfect, it can't fulfill its task with efficiency. Trying to create something as complex as a humanoid combat machine, it only follows that we must look for human perfection in combat, if we wish to surpass it."

"Surpass?"

"Naturally. I know it might be difficult to accept for an outsider, but even the most perfect human being is far from perfect in its efficiency. Humans get sick, need food and sleep. They are swayed by a hundred subconscious suggestions each day, and in this world, I fear, relentlessness is what we need the most."

"Doctor Kahren tells me you are hoping to utilize these... robots for maintaining peace and order. You speak of inefficiency, but I believe it is the human spirit that is most capable of adapting to new situations."

_Or compassion, or mercy._ Andreyev might not have understood what could drive these creations, but he had seen relentlessness in human beings before, and had stood in the ruins of the results, looking at the inconsolable survivors.

Meirth, however, appeared pleased with the concerns. "This would be the next step, of course. Our work is far from complete, as you rightly say. We do wish to eventually create robots with the ability to adapt. As a matter of fact... it would be marvellous if you would give us the chance to assess our progress."

"Pardon?" the Commander said, a chilly note creeping into his tone.

"Human against machine, Sir Kiske. It would be wonderful if you would partake in the demonstration tomorrow... a true challenge to overcome, if you will."

"Doctor!" Kahren protested, but Meirth paid her no mind.

"I must refuse." The Commander was shaking his head, his expression firm. "I do not feel that our ideologies are compatible."

If Meirth was disappointed at this turn of events, he didn't show it, just lifting his shoulders. "What a pity. Then—"

"...I will."

"What?"

"I will," Andreyev repeated, still not quite able to believe what he was saying, trying to keep from holding his breath when Sir Kiske turned to stare at him, incredulity written all over his features. "You want that test, I'll do it. And then we'll see how much your talk of perfection holds up."

In the ensuing silence, Meirth smiled thinly. "Excellent. Sir Kiske, if you..."

But the Commander was no longer listening, his full attention now fixed on Andreyev.

"...Lieutenant. A word, if you will."

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-TBC-

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**A/N:** Phew, this got long. I fear my unreasonable love for Potemkin might be showing; he's one of my favorite supporting characters. Many thanks go to the usual parties for all their support, and C&C is much appreciated, as always.

- As for everyone wondering where the hell Sol is in all of this... we'll get to that eventually. XD

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	6. Interlude I

**Title:** Going off the Record  
**Part:** Interlude, set between chapters 5 and 6  
**Fandom:** Guilty Gear  
**Characters:** Ky, Sol, and the obligatory cameos  
**Rating:** PG-15  
**Warnings:** Alternate Timeline beginning around GGX  
**Summary:** Ky has that word with Andrey.

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**Going off the Record**

_Interlude_**  
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There were a number of things that could legitimately be called the worst feeling in the world. Sitting in a pitch-black pit with no radio and no back-up and listening to the reedy breathing of Gears in the darkness was among them, as was getting yourself torn open from shoulder to hip and having the medic in charge tell you that sorry, all the anaesthetics were going to the real emergencies at the moment, or only finding out during furlough that your hometown had become a pile of ashes while you were gone.

For Andreyev, it was disappointing the Commander.

It wasn't like disappointing other people, in that ordinary way disappointments tend to go, mistakes made, things said, fights had. The way you shrugged and muttered 'sorry' and things went back to the way they'd been. The Commander didn't yell, didn't chastise, didn't demand apologies, although he certainly could have. In fact, he didn't speak at all, just let the silence hang in the air, leaving you with nothing to do.

It was all in that look, Andreyev decided, the thing that sort of hauled back and kicked you in the chest was all in the Commander's eyes; in the moment when you were still grappling with what had just gone down and how you'd maybe done something spectacularly stupid, and when you finally tried to meet his gaze to apologize, the words would just shrivel and die on your tongue.

There was no rancor in that gaze, no bitterness, in fact, there was nothing there at all, and the Commander wasn't even looking at you, his gaze a million miles away because he was already thinking, trying to come up with a solution to what had gone wrong, trying to fix your mistake. And it was the moment where the realization dawned that he didn't blame you, that you'd simply joined the ranks of people for whom the Commander had to compensate, that was the worst feeling in the world.

Andreyev took a breath, pressing his lips together. This wasn't the sort of thing he had words for.

"Sir, I..."

"Don't," the Commander said, holding up his hand. "I'm still trying to remember how much I can zap you without doing any permanent damage."

"Oh," Andreyev said, the sound a perfect echo of his astonishment. Talk was better than silence, better by far, even if the Commander should choose to be angry with him. This, though, he was almost certain that it had been a joke, one of those odd little things intended more for his benefit than the Commander's, but even so, he felt that nothing less than earnestness would do. "Um. Well. If... if it makes you feel better, sir..."

Sighing, the Commander relaxed, his gaze becoming a little softer, a little more here. "We both know how this is going to go, so... I won't ask why. I won't tell you that this is playing right into that man's hands, and I won't appeal to your good judgment. However—"

"Please, sir. I—"

Andreyev hesitated, swallowing past the knot in his throat. There wasn't really anything he could argue, he realized, anything the Commander hadn't already thought of and dismissed, but he felt he should try, anyway, attempt to redeem himself in some small manner. The Commander gave an acquiescing nod, and he decided to take that as an encouraging sign. That, too, was entirely for his own benefit, of course, but the fact that the Commander was still willing to listen meant he had at least not succeeded at chucking years of trust and esteem right out the window.

"I didn't mean to... put you in a bad spot, sir. Just. That bastard knows he's got us by the ba— I mean, he knows he's got us. He's not just going to be showing off machines, he's going to be showing off superhuman versions of _you_, sir."

_And they're going to sell like French hotcakes_, was what he didn't say, but something must have shown on his face, anyway, because the Commander's eyes softened further, a hint of fond exasperation in his tone when he replied, "I thank you for trying to protect my honor, Lieutenant, but sometimes, honor best protects itself."

Andreyev colored. "It's not... it's not just that, sir. I mean, you heard them. They want these things to _think_, to go around judging— And even if I thought this was in any way a good idea, I still wouldn't trust that Meirth guy to use a tea kettle for anybody's benefit."

"Then you understand why I didn't want anyone to have a part in this."

Frowning unhappily, Andreyev nodded. It wasn't too hard to understand, just like it wasn't too hard to imagine the robots, lined up neatly row after row like a bunch of tin soldiers, sold in bulk to any man rich enough to afford them, anyone crazy enough to want a small private army. No need to try and excite the war-weary people, when the press of a button could make things so easy.

"I know, sir," he said quietly. "But we need to find out what these tin cans can do, don't we. If I go in... to these guys, I'm a nobody. If _I_ manage to put a few dents in their precious invention, it'd probably turn a couple of heads. Buy us some time. I could gauge the capacities, see firsthand what kind of trouble they're going to cause."

"There are other ways, though," the Commander insisted. "Less dangerous ways."

"Sir, by the time we get any kind of support..." Andreyev trailed off. The Commander knew this, knew their hands were tied, and was still unwilling to send him in as a replacement. He exhaled, his shoulders slumping slightly. "If you give the order, sir, then I won't."

"This isn't the army, Lieutenant." Sir Kiske paused thoughtfully, as if wishing for a moment that it was. "All I can do is ask you to reconsider."

Drawing a sharp breath, Andreyev shook his head. Slowly, and just once, because there wasn't enough courage left in him to do more than move his neck muscles that one time. The Commander had left the choice to him, but there was no way he couldn't make the decision, try and do what he could to keep things from going to pieces faster than they had to, keep the Commander from going on 'secret missions' that would leave him bruised and tired with that small, awful smile, like this was how things were supposed to be. And still, to refuse that plea...

_I can't, sir. I'm sorry._

"I see." The Commander's voice was quiet, but there was an odd note to it that made Andreyev look up to catch his lips curling slightly, partly in resignation and partly in a gentle sort of humor. "Well, I suppose I have seen this coming. You do have an incriminating record with that kind of thing."

The chuckle was another surprise, even more so because it was coming from himself, but there wasn't really anything else to do, certainly nothing to _say_ to someone who forgave with barely any thought at all. The very least he could do now was to take the opportunity to prove that those sentiments weren't misplaced, to pay back a small amount of the debt still left over from all those years ago.

_I won't disappoint you, sir. I swear it._

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-TBC-

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**A/N:** I admit I never planned for Andreyev to play this big of a role as he does now. He was originally meant to be on the fringes of this story, but he's proven to be an excellent lens for looking at Ky. Even if he's a lens with an overprotective streak for his lady godde— I mean, his kid bro— the Commander. (Don't tell him, or he'll walk off to find a sturdy wall to bash his head against.)

At any rate, thanks for sticking with me for this long. Stuff will actually happen now. XD And as usual, C&C is highly appreciated.

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_A quick public service announcement:_

I prefer answering questions via PM (and please, do ask if there's something on your mind), but since I didn't have contact info for everyone, I'll just put this here:

- Numerous people have wanted to know whether this is "a yaoi story". No. No, this is not a "yaoi story". Neither is it a "het story" or a "gen story". It is just _a story._ A story I am going to try and tell to the best of my ability, with hopefully maximum entertainment for you. But it is going to be a story regardless of what pairings I decide to introduce, because I think emotions and excitement should come from the overarching struggle of the characters, not just who gets with whom. Also, please be respectful towards pairings other than your favorite ship — even if you don't intend to be hurtful per se, chances are that telling someone that their favorite thing is overrated or nonsensical is going to hurt them. Thank you.

That has been a public service announcement. Please continue to enjoy your stopover at FFnet. XD


	7. Chapter 6

**Title: **Going off the Record**  
Part:** 6/?  
**Fandom:** Guilty Gear  
**Characters: **Ky, Sol, and obligatory cameos  
**Rating:** PG-15**  
Warnings:** Alternate Timeline beginning around GGX, now with boom and stabbity

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**Going off the Record**  
_Chapter VI_

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The FIRC testing ground was the most modern facility money and technology had been able to build during the war, even though the construction itself was almost a hundred years old by now. Its outward appearance hadn't changed much, except for the occasional addition of a shed marking the entrance to a new research division or warehouse. They were easily dwarfed by the main complex, however, a metal dome rising in their midst like a large, flat tortoise shell with six radio spires sticking out from its corners, ever vigilant, ever listening. Despite its impressive exterior, most of its laboratories and test chambers were located underground, buried as deep as they could go when it first became apparent that Justice could, and would, execute air strikes to level the field whenever she pleased.

_Fiat iustitia ruat caelum._

Let justice be done, though the heavens may fall. A grand name for a grand cause, given back in the days when causes still seemed more than just rhetoric, when it still seemed that with enough hymns, God could be swayed to take sides.

Conservative as the Order was, though, twenty tons of armor and bad attitude didn't care whether the crossbow bolts pinging off their hide were specially blessed or not. The inquisitorial visits were soon reduced from twice a day to once a week, to formally ensure that no heresy was being practiced in these hallowed halls, and the directive of FIRC became to build whatever was necessary — airship engines, gun turrets, shield generators. "Whatever works and doesn't get us killed," became a running joke among the soldiers, though the labs tended to skimp on the first part almost as much as the second. There were a number of spectacular disasters any veteran could name, coming out of FIRC.

For Andreyev, it was the Gear gas.

Although he'd lain in the mud, staring into the immense, bonelessly dripping maw of a slugworm with nothing but a prototype gun in his hands that wouldn't fire, and shipped out in an airship with an experimental reactor that had gone up in flames two seconds after touchdown, the gas was a sight to remember. Watching from the portholes as the bomb carpet went off, it had truly looked like the sky was falling, hundreds of capsules breaking open simultaneously to spread their sickly yellow veil.

Moscow was still off-limits, a dead zone, not enough life left in the earth to even plant something in it.

He'd been to FIRC a few times since in the line of duty, but each time had left a bad taste in his mouth. The immaculate tile floors, the polished reception desk with its politely smiling clerk, the drooping potted plants clinging to life in strategic corners to give the place an air of hospitality did nothing to erase the knowledge that somewhere underneath his feet, in the bowels of the complex, a set of empty tanks the size of a small ship was sitting, their contents scattered across a ruined city. In the back of his mind, he knew that it wasn't wholly their fault, that the researchers working here had little say in what their inventions were used for, but it was easier to be angry at a real, solid thing than something he couldn't touch, people whose names and faces he didn't even know.

Today, though, the tanks couldn't have been further from his mind.

"Here."

Andreyev turned around to stare at the bringer of the small metal cup that had appeared in his field of vision, its curling steam smelling distinctly of black tea. He'd spent the past half hour counting the tiles, the only kind of meditation to be done in this place, trying to get himself to focus, and now his mind was slow to return, drifting back from that endless expanse of white squares.

"You looked like you needed one," the Commander said, smiling and tilting a thermos with his other hand. "Careful, it's hot."

"Thank you, sir," Andreyev said, and lifted the cup to his lips.

Assam to boost alertness. Milk and sugar to soothe. Steeped exactly three minutes for maximum effectiveness, but slightly more bitter now thanks to the wait. He wasn't a tea drinker, never had been, but you learned a couple of things being around the Commander for so long. This was the tea of late-night case-cracking and exceptionally irritating brass meetings, with a little extra sweetness, the closest thing there was to a Sir Kiske comfort drink.

He managed to scald his tongue despite the warning, grateful for the heat creeping into his system, hiding his blush. Embarrassing to think of himself as in need of comfort, more embarrassing to think that he'd been obvious enough to inspire the Commander's concern. More embarrassing still to know that he was happy about it.

"How are things?"

"Fine, I would say," the Commander said, moving to stand beside him.

From their vantage point, they were getting a good view of the single long-range cannon that adorned the entrance hall, its plating polished to a shine, the muzzle extending halfway across the room. A little plaque was proclaiming it to be the first of its type, a monument of science, testament to humanity's will, but they both knew that it was something closer to the tenth or fifteenth, whichever alteration of the test model hadn't exploded in the lab, but just given a weak fizzle and refused to start up again. A few ambassadors were clustered around it, gazing up at it in something like wonderment, wandering in and out between the stilts of the massive tripod base to grasp its size.

"Fine, sir?" Andreyev asked, letting the sweetness of another sip cling to the roof of his mouth momentarily.

"Well, the Dutch team's prototype engine caught fire during demonstration, so now they're claiming sabotage. The Catalanian delegation lost their interpreter and were ready to consider abduction when the guy turned up in the bathroom, sick with yesterday's buffet. Now they're considering an assassination attempt. The Germans are still ripping that water guy to shreds." The Commander shook his head, his smile close to becoming a smirk. "All in all, I'd say it's calculable amounts of insanity, so... things are fine."

Andreyev nodded, his thoughts hovering elsewhere. It was funny, how a part of him would have felt better if there'd been a rift, some kind of loss or distance he'd have to make up for. Instead, the Commander was speaking to him as if yesterday hadn't happened at all, the same friendly, near-informal lilt, and the guilt was all in his own head. He'd considered himself almost honor-bound to lose sleep over it.

"I think it might be a good idea to go down soon," the Commander said suddenly, the amusement vanishing from his tone.

"Time already?"

"It could be beneficial for us to see the setup, plus, I'd really like to see this team in action."

Andreyev nodded, hating the surge in his gut when he got up. It was something he'd never managed to get rid of entirely, no matter how many battles he fought or how many threats he faced — the small, nervous quake that was tension and excitement and a tiny spark of dread all at once. He liked to avoid thinking of it as anxiety. "You think that'll tell us anything, sir?"

"It might. I'm not done asking questions just yet, and you've seen the way Meirth directs Kahren."

More like how he was moving her about like a game piece, but Andreyev couldn't imagine anyone blind enough to willingly endure such treatment. In the war, those had been the officers that nobody mourned, those that would suddenly find themselves out of a rear guard in battle and out of a funeral. In his experience, it was always a bad idea to needlessly antagonize the people whose stakes were greater than your own. The woman might not have been a battle-hardened soldier, but she seemed smarter than that; too smart to tolerate this without reason.

When he said as much, the Commander drew his brows together and said quietly, "Not without reason, no."

"Sir?" Andreyev asked, but he was already turning away, moving in the direction of the elevator platforms. Quickly downing his cup, uncaring of the sting, Andreyev hurried after him.

"There are many ways to ensure compliance," the Commander was saying, his voice lowered to a murmur when they passed by the delegates. "Even if it's an act, as you suspect, sooner or later one party will begin not to think of it as such. Belittlement schemes rarely work out to the schemer's advantage."

"You really think so, sir?" Andreyev asked. "That she's innocent?"

They reached the platform, the Commander adjusting the dial to go down to the security section.

"I don't know, Lieutenant. All I know is that there's a very determined man who admitted, to my face, that humanity bores him. I think we would do well to expect him to be capable of any number of things."

With a slow grinding sound, the elevator began to descend.

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"Ah, Commander. So good of you to join us."

His arms spread wide, Meirth performed a shallow bow, like a ringmaster welcoming visitors to his arena. Outwardly, he appeared to be in his element, a show star orchestrating his moment in the limelight, but there was an erratic edge to his gestures that made them more than mere performance, his eyes gleaming with a certain kind of intensity that was different from last evening's cat and mouse. Now, he seemed almost impatient.

When he noticed the Commander's scrutiny, though, he immediately reigned himself in, the spark of imperiousness flickering and dying on his face. "I'm afraid we are occupying the best spot in the house, so to speak. Monitoring equipment, you understand."

He waved his hand towards the windowfront, where a row of foreign apparatus were sitting, a variety of gauges and dials mounted on top, emitting a loud hum. Each of the panes was protected by the flickering white glow of an energy field, and beyond the static, the observation bay opened up into a chamber at least three stories deep and the size of a small field. The protective covering on the walls had been replaced many times, the newer tiles a shade lighter, some of the surrounding ones still bearing the traces of scorch marks. A number of observation rooms along the other walls were similarly sealed by magic.

A testing field for explosive weaponry.

How very fitting, Andreyev thought, silently measuring size and depth with his adrenaline was already starting to pump, a low thrum running through his body, making his fingers flex against his thighs. There was no sense in letting excitement cloud his judgment, but a part of him was going to enjoy taking one of these mockeries apart, anyway, show all those impressionable idiots that they were nothing more than cogs and wires on the inside.

_No miracles to be had from these._

Meirth was still talking, evidently opting for the greatest possible amount of chutzpah. "Since this was organized on such short notice, I fear we don't have any detailed brochures. So... we'll start off with a demonstration of the specs, and then, I'd say, we'll move right to the main event. It really is too bad we couldn't reach an agreement, Sir Kiske. Seeing you fight in person would have been magnificent, indeed."

_Keep talking, and I'll make sure you won't be able to piece your scientific wonder back together_, Andreyev thought bitterly, clenching his jaw. The Commander would probably be displeased if he knew, but he refused to feel guilty about it. Even if that guy was looking to upset them, it was no use keeping it inside all the time, not with several hundred people in attendance and the reports they'd take back home.

Meirth must have seen him bristling, though, because he smiled and bowed again, this time apologetically. "Forgive me, Lieutenant. I did not mean to insinuate a lack of appreciation for your skills. It's just... how to put it... well, anyone would seem a poor substitute in comparison."

"I am not in the habit of considering my men substitutes, Doctor," the Commander said, and though his voice was quiet, his tone made the surrounding temperature drop by at least ten degrees. "Lieutenant Andreyev will be participating as himself, and no one else. You would do well to adjust your assumptions."

For a moment, something like genuine surprise flitted across Meirth's face, before it disappeared once again under his all-purpose smile. "Ah. Certainly, Sir Kiske, you are ever so right. Now then, may I invite you to watch the test from here? It might not be as comfortable, but, as I said, the best spot in the—"

The door slid open, the rest of Meirth's speech getting lost in the shuffle of the research team crowding into the room, carrying tools, all clad in a variety of labcoats and jumpsuits. One by one, they assumed their stations in front of the gadgets to make final adjustments. The giant was accompanying them, but he remained just outside the doorway, examining it for any hopes of squeezing through sideways.

"Oh, pardon me." Kahren's voice in the hallway, and then she swiftly slipped past her ostensible bodyguard, who had been trying to cautiously fit one limb through at a time, but now considered withdrawing altogether. She didn't seem to notice much besides her work, heading straight for one of the control panels to take a reading. "Robots are prepped and ready for launch, Doctor. We can start any time."

"Ah, splendid. I fear I was taking the wind out of your sails just now, Lara, when I suggested Sir Kiske might want to watch the demonstration from here. Come to think of it, this proposal would have sounded much better, coming from you."

She turned, not quite able to hide her wince when she caught sight of their visitors, and Andreyev barely managed to suppress the urge to roll his eyes. The Commander didn't seem to think it an act, but he couldn't see what else it _could _be, the discrepancy between the dramatis personae of the rational scientist and the guilt-ridden soul too great to belong to anyone who'd spent years building weapons in the image of someone else.

Then, she straightened, searching for a smile. "Good morning, Sir Kiske. Sir Andreyev. I'm sorry, my mind was elsewhere just now."

Andreyev decided to let the Commander's return greeting stand for both of them, his willingness to be polite already circling in the drain when Meirth spoke again. "Well, Lara, I trust you'll find some fitting seats for our guests. I'll be checking the sequences again."

"But I've already—!"

Before Kahren could finish her sentence, he disappeared towards the back of the observation room, waving other members of the team to join him as he went. She sighed, glaring after him when she was sure his back was turned.

"Doctor Meirth certainly has a way with his subordinates," the Commander noted conversationally, watching the proceedings.

"Oh, you don't know the half of it," Kahren said, in a tone that wouldn't melt butter. "I've checked the values twice already. Sometimes, I swear he's just doing it to—" Then, she remembered who she was talking to, because she cut herself off abruptly. "My apologies. We're all very high-strung right now... the doctor just wants to make sure everything will be going smoothly. Now, about those chairs..."

"Don't trouble yourself," the Commander said. "I'd rather be standing, anyway."

"Oh. Well. If that is all right with you, may I suggest over here?" She gestured to a free spot against the windowfront. "You should be able to observe everything from here. If you have any questions..."

The Commander glanced at him, but Andreyev shook his head. "No questions. Thank you."

"I... see." Across the room, Meirth beckoned her. "I must be going."

Despite her words, though, Kahren lingered, and when she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper. "Lieutenant, I... if you want to reconsider— we've never done something like this before. There's no data—"

"Lara, we're launching. Please assume your station _now_."

For a second, she looked ready to snap back an angry reply, everything in her body poised to do so, but then it vanished as she complied, a low "please be careful" her only words as she hurried towards her appointed seat.

They both stood looking after her for a moment, before Andreyev muttered, "A bit late to grow a conscience. And over a tiff with her superior, too."

"Whatever Kahren's reasons, I'm inclined to agree with her sentiment," the Commander said, his forehead creasing as he glanced out the windows.

"Pardon, sir?"

The Commander had a few looks in his arsenal that could make a lesser man's breath stop in his throat, though Andreyev couldn't have said whether the Commander was aware of it or not. One was his smile, the kind that was reserved for those rare moments of true joy, the one you only got to see when you happened to walk in on an inopportune moment with a chocolate fudge cupcake or when he forgot himself enough to stop being the Commander for a little while. Then, there was fury, the kind of pure, holy fury that made Andreyev wonder whether the Commander hadn't been charged with defending something with a flaming sword in a previous life. He'd seen that look only once, just before the final battle, when the terrified radio sergeant had handed the Commander the receiver to let him hear for himself the grand plan to seal Justice away.

And now, there was this look, trust and raw concern cutting him to the quick when the Commander murmured, "Please, do be careful."

Andreyev nodded hastily, not all that confident in his ability to do anything else, before the spell was broken by Kahren's voice over the loudspeaker, echoing clearly throughout the observation bays.

"We are now beginning the introduction of project VG-0001, the autonomous humanoid combat machine. After more than five years, Zepp is proud to present the very first breakthrough in this sector, one we hope will benefit all of us in our continued struggle against the Gears. As you well know, current magic-based weapon systems are not sufficiently developed to be considered for reliable, large-scale protection of human settlements. The autonomous combat machine, however, has not only been outfitted with advanced systems to cope with continuous use, but has been programmed with human-based reflexes to ensure unheard-of efficiency."

As she spoke, four metal pillars began to rise from the ground in the test chamber. Two robots were perched on top of each, one facing the wall, one facing the center, and all perfectly motionless.

"The first test will be a simple demonstration of accuracy and destructive capability. In the event of explosions, please do not be alarmed, as you are perfectly safe behind the security shields. To further ensure your safety, we will be setting combat parameters to seventy-five percent of maximum."

From his vantage point, Andreyev could watch the reactions in the other observation bays, people straining forward and beginning to gesticulate wildly when they noticed the undeserved resemblance. The pillars slid into place, allowing everyone to get a good, long look at them. Sir Kiske's face wasn't betraying any emotion, but Andreyev liked to imagine that he wasn't alone in feeling sick to his stomach.

"Units One, Three, Five, and Seven, assume position. Two, Four, Six and Eight stand ready to provide cover."

One by one, their eyes lit up with a yellow glow. The inner robots stepped forward to the edge of their platforms, and despite their utter lack of grace, he could recognize their step all too well.

"Initialize combat protocol Gamma-Six-Nine, aerial assault."

"What the hell, aerial?" Andreyev asked, glancing towards the scientists. "What's she going to have them do, aim for sparrows?"

The Commander didn't reply, but he didn't have to — his entire body going tense even as one of the wall panels started to slide open, one hand reaching for the hilt of his sword almost subconsciously, and Andreyev had been a soldier entirely too long not to know what that meant.

In a cacophony of cries, a tangled blue-gray mass pushed forth into the room and dropped writhing to the floor. Dimly, Andreyev was aware of human screams as delegates leapt from their seats in terror, but his attention remained fixed on the unfurling bodies in the chamber, wings stretching to take flight, sleek, gleaming bodies rearing to reveal armored, shovel-like limbs.

"What is the meaning of this!" Sir Kiske's voice sliced through the room like a thunderbolt, the scientists flinching almost involuntarily.

"Bi-lateral cooperation, if you will, Commander," Meirth said, not a trace of nervousness in his tone, his eyes holding that gleam again. "Your country was most helpful in the acquisition of suitable targets. And before you ask me to stop it... I shall."

"This is madness!"

"Not at all, Commander, it's progress. The time when we were cowering in trenches from these beasts is now officially over." With a flourish, he turned to Kahren, who had frozen in her seat, staring between them. "Whenever you are ready, Doctor."

In the chamber, the Gears had fully disentangled themselves, but they didn't behave at all like Andreyev remembered them, merciless quicksilver shapes circling and diving by the hundreds, trying to rip through any airship in their path. Some were hopping half-heartedly on the ground, cocking their heads occasionally to emit shrill, bird-like cries. Others were flapping around, disoriented, receiving jolts from the magic barriers as they tried to ascend towards the observation bays.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Kahren continued, though she needed to clear the quaver from her voice first. "Please, remain seated. There is no cause for alarm. We will now begin targeting. Initiate maneuver."

In unison, the robots tilted their heads back, and then, the air was once again filled with the muffled cries of the Gears. They were twitching and curling in mid-air, clawing at nothing, and it took Andreyev a moment to realize why.

_Ultrasound._

There was no warning, no indication of any kind. There was only the first, one Gear that stopped screaming, its wings folding close to its body as it dived. And then another, and another, the whole flock arranging itself into an attack formation and bearing down on the sources of their torment.

The robots barely even moved, compartments on their bodies sliding open, a hail of projectiles slamming into the oncoming wave and knocking it back against the walls. The Gears remained there for a moment, writhing, and Andreyev realized the sleek tubes hadn't been projectiles at all, but a type of magical grenade, even as their bodies erupted in flames.

"My God," Andreyev breathed, unable to do anything but stare as body after body fell.

"Indeed," the Commander murmured, his voice low and tense in a way he'd never heard before, and it didn't take much at all to imagine the same deadly precision tearing through rows of helpless people instead.

Undeterred, the second wave dived, even as the back row of robots began to twist, a metal frame unfolding from their shoulders. Andreyev had a momentary impression of small, sleek cannon muzzles, and then four blasts of white-hot energy tore through the onslaught, crippled and burnt Gears falling by the dozen. Through the smoke and fire, the other four leapt, swords drawn. Propelled by inhumanly powerful legs, they were practically soaring, effortlessly skewering the remaining Gears — not falling down with them, no, but using their tearing bodies like ledges, already reaching for the next target as the remains of the first slammed uselessly to the floor.

Amid the scatter of body parts, the four robots landed securely on their feet, the tiles denting under the force of their impact. Unfazed, they straightened, the glow fading from their eyes as they sheathed their bloody swords.

In the silence, cheering broke out among the team in the observation bay, scientists jumping from their seats to pump their fists and clap each others' backs. Andreyev knew he should have been doing something, perhaps scream them into silence to ask about their moral code, or grab the nearest one to shake them out of their self-congratulatory euphoria, but all he could do was gaze at them numbly, wondering whether they were all blind or simply didn't care, and which of the two would be worse. Kahren, at least, wasn't cheering, just sitting there and repetitively smoothing her hands down the base of the microphone, leaving a glistening sheen.

The Commander had turned, as well, stiff as a statue, a glimpse of that holy fury burning in his eyes now as he stared at Meirth, who merely gazed back, unconcerned.

Secure in his immunity, thinking he could do whatever he wanted. Thinking he'd managed to shock them into submission.

Andreyev shook his head minutely, not letting his hand stray from the hilt of his sword, noting that the Commander still hadn't let go, either.

_Don't worry, /Doctor/. You're still on._

.

* * *

.

The sun was already standing low against the horizon when the first runners started coming in, bringing with them reports from the other battalions. Most of them were barely more than children, panting their way through the salutes, not sure whether to be more jumpy thanks to the mountains of carcasses piling up or thanks to being in the presence of the esteemed Commander, who had finally had a minute to sit down in the ruins of the town wall and bandage a gash on his arm.

Another battle won, another drop in the ocean, another city to lost, but the Commander wouldn't have seen it that way, not with so many lives saved.

"Gears— exterminated— along the southern ridge, sir," one of the courier kids was saying, one of those fidgety green boys still determined to do everything according to protocol, when it was almost certain that some of the damp patches staining his pants weren't due to dirt. "Sir Badguy is— requesting permission to pursue— the scattered forces."

"Is he, now?" the Commander asked, his eyes gleaming with a private mirth.

"Um." The boy hesitated, coughing guiltily, and admitted, "Well, no, sir. He just... um. Started swearing at me, sir. And left."

"I thought as much. It's all right, though. This would have been my order, anyway." He smiled at the boy's wide-eyed stare. "You're dismissed. Try to get some rest."

"Does he... do that sort of thing often, sir?" Andreyev asked awkwardly, when the kid had gone off tripping and stumbling down the hillside covered in bodies.

He still wasn't sure whether this was even allowed, butting into the Commander's business, asking trivial questions. Everyone in the battalion seemed to treat him like something just shy of a prince, or perhaps a god, someone you tried not to bother unless there was no way around it, and Andreyev had seen glimpses of the intricate conspiracy that had formed around him, the way soldiers would offer their reverence in secret. The way the Commander would always be the last to sit down for a meal, and still receive a double portion because the lightning users tended to burn through food like it was nothing, their metabolism extracting every ounce of energy from a morsel and still craving more. The way he wasn't allowed to notice it was a double portion, either, or he'd try to offer it to someone else. The way things mysteriously found their way into his tent, things that seemed to belong to nobody but were meant to replace a pair of gloves that had become torn beyond repair, or a bag of herbal tea obviously lovingly concocted by somebody's grandmother for somebody's sore throat.

The platoons Andreyev had been a part of had had camaraderie, certainly, a sense of caring and closeness born out of the knowledge that these were the people standing between you and death, and therefore you'd better take good care of them. But not like this. Never like this.

The Commander didn't seem to mind his intrusion, though, any more than he seemed to mind the courier's mistaken sense of formality, because he said lightly, "Oh, constantly. Constantly. It's easier to just let him do things I don't explicitly disagree with. He hasn't disappointed me yet, though I doubt he'd care, either way."

"Oh," Andreyev said, because there was nothing else to say to that, and then, "You must be good friends."

It had been terribly indiscreet of him to say so, he realized as the words escaped his mouth. He wasn't even sure why he'd suggested it because Badguy seemed anything _but _friendly, the kind of person you tried to avoid but kept an eye on because there was no telling what he might do. The Commander, though, merely chuckled.

"I've never heard it called that, to be honest." He paused in contemplation, tying off the knot on his bandage and rising from the boulder. "More... a challenge. I think we know where we stand, with each other. It's good, having a person where one knows that, no?"

"Um," Andreyev said, not quite sure if he was meant to agree.

"I realize this must seem worrisome to you," the Commander continued. "But you're not a man easily swayed by words, are you, Lieutenant? So... all I can tell you is to wait a while. I think you'll see, in time."

Andreyev stared, not entirely certain why he was inclined to believe him, when such a vague answer would have formerly served to only make him suspicious. Before he could think of a reply, though, a soft, rasping moan came floating by on the wind, so faint that it could have been his imagination in any place but a battlefield — the Commander already sprinting off as the sound was joined by a chorus of human screams.

Past another hilltop, a group of townspeople came into view, all of them standing in a half-circle and screaming at the top of their lungs. It took Andreyev a moment to realize that they weren't trying to flee or defend themselves, their voices raised in yells of incoherent rage as they lunged forward, brandishing makeshift clubs or farming tools. The Gear was lying on its side, its legs cut off partway, its underbelly sliced open from throat to tailbone, the power bleeding from its massive body. It wasn't moving at all, not even when the scythes and knives were thrust into its skin, only emitting a low, keening groan when a lucky blow would strike its eye, or the people near its hindquarters would tug at the rope they'd tied around its leg, jerking at the half-severed flank to make it cry out.

Thrown for a loop, he hesitated, turning to look over at the Commander for an indication of what to do; but the Commander was ahead of him, sliding down the hill, the sword flashing from its sheath as he rushed towards the townspeople.

"Enough!"

Its heart pierced, the Gear sank back, a final breathy moan gurgling to a halt in its of the people stopped to stare at him, while others continued jerking at the carcass, causing fresh blood to spray from its wounds.

"That's enough!"

Another sword stroke cut through the rope, sending the men stumbling backwards.

"It's dead now," the Commander announced with finality, a flick of his wrist sending the gore slipping off the blade. "Let it go."

"What do you mean, let it go?" a woman exclaimed, her voice close to tears, uncaring of the Gear blood staining her clothing. "That thing took everything we had!"

"There's nothing there anymore!" another man shouted, smacking a bloodied club into his palm. "Nothing! Let that monster feel what it was like to be my son, getting torn in half! Where do you get off telling us what to do, huh? I haven't seen you tell those demons to stop killing our children!"

"No," the Commander said softly. "I can't plead with souls I can't reach."

"Then—"

"But I can plead with _you_."

He looked around, taking in the grief-stricken faces, a kind of solemnity settling in his own expression that should have belonged to someone much older, someone who'd seen much more than a scant fifteen years pass by, perhaps more years than there were in a lifetime. And it was that thing that made him appear so much taller, shrouded in an aura that even Andreyev could feel, and he wasn't superstitious at all.

"I can beg you to let it go. Not for their sake, but for your own." The Commander paused, drawing a deep breath. "Words are all I can offer you. My prayers, my wish that your loved ones may journey safely to Heaven, or whichever resting place their souls might choose. And I can only ask you... to carry their memory high, so that it shines in your heart above all else.

"These beasts have many ways of being cruel. But so do the beasts that lurk inside the heart. I beg you not to nourish them so... lest you become one of them."

.

* * *

.

To say Andreyev had never had any lost love for Gears would have been an understatement. Like so many others, he'd lost his home to them, and, bit by bit, his family, his parents and three younger sisters. After the war, he'd never been able to change his views of them the way the Commander had, treating them more like animals than hellspawn, instructing police troops on which were dangerous and which could easily be steered clear of towns and villages without any bloodshed. He knew there were people out there living off Gears now, herding them in place of their destroyed livestock, but the idea had always seemed too bizarre to fully register in his mind.

Watching as the testing field was cleared of shredded bodies, though, he couldn't help but remember the Commander's words from so long ago, about the beasts inside the human heart. Although he'd stood on the bridge of an airship as the same Gears had tried to tear it to pieces, there was a profound sense of wrongness about the spectacle — something that went past any concerns for the spectators' safety, something that kept straying back to the sight of these creatures, hopping and trilling in confusion, trying to find a way out — and he thought he could understand, at least a little bit, why the Commander had stopped the townspeople on that day.

"I've informed Jarre," the Commander said, striding back into the room and unhooking the radio headset from behind his ear. "He'll stop these cadavers from being disposed of until Bernard sends over the investigation unit."

"Let's hope it'll be enough," Andreyev murmured, watching as the last pile of bodies was carted out of the hall. The robots had remained where they'd landed, silent and unmoving, thought that didn't make them any less unnerving.

"Lieutenant, are you all right?"

"Huh?" Andreyev blinked, slightly discomfited at the realization that the only reason the Commander wasn't outright trying to hold him back was because he'd promised to trust him. "I'm fine, sir. Don't worry about me."

"Ladies and gentlemen, if you would please take your seats... we will now proceed with phase two," Kahren's voice echoed over the loudspeaker. She seemed to have fallen back into her role as presenter, though her face was several shades paler by now, her hands still squeezing the base of the microphone.

"Now it's already a phase," Andreyev muttered, grimacing.

"A close-combat simulation between man and machine. As the basic model has been designed in accordance with combat patterns derived from Sir Kiske, this match is meant to show its full efficiency, and a member of the international police has graciously agreed to assist us. Please keep in mind that this is a test; although the opponent is an experienced combatant himself, the machine will operate in simulation mode only to prevent undue injury. Unit One, initialize alpha-testing phase. Close combat simulation, all long-range weapons remain deactivated."

She looked at him. "When you're ready, Lieutenant, please proceed to the entry hatch ahead. Your opponent will be Unit One. Since it is the oldest, it possesses the most comprehensive data to draw from. Good luck."

"Right. Sir!"

Squaring his shoulders, Andreyev turned and saluted, before making his way towards the appointed hatch without another look back. At the control panels, one of the scientists pulled a lever, and it slid open, revealing the grating of a maintenance staircase. Descending, he could feel the stares from the audience bearing down on him, dozens upon dozens of curious diplomats that had apparently digested their shock over the live Gears, and were now looking to see what else the wonder machines could do. Briefly, he wondered whether the gladiators of ancient Rome had felt like this when they marched out the gates to face their foe, and what they might have thought of their spectators, who couldn't have cared less what the fight meant for the men in the arena.

The robots had retreated against the pillars; all, except the first, which stood where it had landed in the center, sword at the ready and eyes glowing faintly.

When it spotted him, it fell into stance with a soft mechanical whirr, a stance so painfully familiar that a new surge of rage bubbled up inside him — sword held overhead, one arm ready for balance.

_Go ahead. Make my day._

Breathing a kiss on the back of his sword hand, he charged.

He'd never been on the receiving end of one of the Commander's blows. Of course, they'd sparred in the ring a few times, fun and pastime keeping the strokes light, the pace slow, though he had no illusions of what Sir Kiske was holding back, had seen him fell Gears three times his size often enough to have at least an inkling.

This, though, was a blow backed by two hundred pounds of metal, and it felt like getting his arms torn out of their sockets, blade clashing against blade hard enough to shock them into numbness. Strong, so strong, forcing his sword towards the ground in a way no human could have done — the yellow eyes flashed, and then he was stumbling, pushed back like it was nothing and floundering for balance.

The second blow missed him only by a few inches, sparks jumping when the sword struck the floor.

Overhead, Kahren was saying something, rattling off specifics, but he tuned her out, all his attention on the robot. It had paused, gazing at its blade as if surprised at the result, contemplating what had gone wrong, and he decided to take his chance. Strength wouldn't win him this, but speed might.

Dashing forward, he struck again in quick succession, the robot parrying in synch — but it wasn't the parry of a swordsman, sword held to shield his vital regions, only a reasonable facsimile. Not the same instinct of self-preservation, not the same attachment a human had to his gut or lungs. When it lunged again, he danced quickly out of range, watching as it paused again briefly to examine its failure.

_Imitation's only gonna get you so far._

His kick should have hit it square in the jaw, but he only had a split-second impression of the head bending unnaturally, in a way no human spine could have, before he dived under its swing. His blade struck against its leg, armored and hard, but not hard enough not to feel something give. A blow Sir Kiske would have never allowed, but the thing wasn't speed and grace, it was intimidation — just tried to pull out its big guns and power you down.

The robot staggered, its right leg slipping out from underneath it.

Its next strike came in uneven, and he ducked it easily, another roundhouse kick taking out its damaged leg completely. Sizzling, it stumbled backwards against the pillar, the light vanishing from its eyes as it collapsed on one knee.

"Unit One is down! Unbelievable! Truly an unexpected result—"

Kahren's voice again, sounding equal parts shocked and relieved, accompanied by a round of applause from the stands, though Andreyev could hardly hear it. His pulse pounding loudly enough to eclipse all other sound, he turned slowly to face the science bay, unable to hold in a grin when he saw the Commander holding up his hand, signing complete annihilation.

He didn't look back at the fallen puppet again, just wiping the sweat from his brow and lifting his fingers in an affirmative signal. If he had, he might have understood why the Commander's eyes suddenly widened, why he was jerking two fingers in the gesture to break out to the side. He might have seen the yellow glow rekindling, might have seen its owner rise, rotate its leg as if shrugging off the damage. He might have even felt the rush of air against his back, even if he didn't hear the rapid pounding steps past the roaring in his own ears.

As it was, he only felt a sharp, abrupt pain, so quick he wasn't sure if he'd imagined it.

Numbly, he gazed down at the tip of the blade protruding from his right chest, drops of blood slowly starting to trickle down its edge. A thought flitted across his mind, tinged with mild frustration — _got the uniform cleaned for nothing _— but it was drowned out by the odd sensation of inhaling water, not air, the rising bewilderment that he was gasping and not taking anything in, and then his vision burst into light.

.

* * *

.

Two things about the scene would stand out in Ky's mind forever afterwards. The first was the vision of Andreyev's contented grin, as the blade was slicing towards him. The second was Kahren screaming, amplified tenfold by the speakers — an anguished, wordless scream of horror.

For a second, time seemed to have stopped, every single person frozen in their seats, before the control room broke into confused shouting, scientists yelling and lunging for their equipment—

"Oh holy shit!"

"Shut it off, shut it the hell off!"

"Doctor! We have to—"

"Unit One, abort maneuver! Abort maneuver!"

"Why isn't it shutting down?"

—even as the robot pulled out its sword, Andreyev slumping to the floor like a rag doll, and Ky just reacted.

A wave of lightning collided with the switchboard on the far right, levers dropping in the off-position as the scientists threw themselves from their seats to avoid the band of electricity racing through their instrument banks. The hatch swung open under a kick, and he was leaping down the stairs, taking entire flights blindly, all his attention on the robot that had pulled back, its sword rising for another blow.

More yells on the intercom, Kahren shrieking an abort code over and over to no avail, and then his feet hit the floor, another spell flying from his fingertips with barely any delay at all.

The robot had no time to act, a spear of lightning slamming into it head-on, sending it flying through the air and slamming into the pillar at its back hard enough to leave an indent. Before it could right itself, Ky was upon it, slicing its head off with one swing, a second thrust piercing its chest plating, the glare of electricity momentarily causing its eyes to shine bright blue. It crumpled to the ground, wires spilling out on the ground.

Ky whirled, pure instinct bringing the Furaiken around in time to parry a blow that would have sliced him open from shoulder to hip.

Three pairs of yellow eyes were staring at him from beyond the crossing blades, the remaining robots moving of their own volition to intercept the threat.

"Commander! Get out of there!" Kahren again, her voice hoarse and desperate. "We can't shut them down! The codes aren't working!"

The other two robots fell into mirrors of his own attack stance, poised to strike, mercifully ignoring Andreyev's lifeless body.

"Please, run!"

_No._

Dancing spheres of lightning lifted the first off its feet, knocking it back against one of its comrades as they charged. The third caught his roundhouse kick with one arm, hauling him off his feet, and Ky rolled, bringing the sword up to block an overhead blow. So, they had been watching, evaluating and devising responses to their opponents' strategy, but there was little point in worrying about it now.

The next shock of electricity was caught against the translucent dome of a shield spell, but it didn't extend to the robot's weapon, wrenching the sword out of its grasp with enough force to skewer the head of the second. It stiffened, limbs freezing in mid-step, and, like a tree being axed, capsized. The other robot seemed unperturbed by its newly weaponless state, because it was already twisting, two pairs of metal beams unfolding from its back, and it took Ky a moment to realize that they were arms, knuckles bent into deadly fists.

_This is nothing. In the war, I've had much worse._

They lunged.

A somersault carried him out of the way of the first's blow, tile splintering under the impact and slicing his arm, but Ky could hardly feel a thing. He let momentum carry him backwards, one flip after the other to escape the reach of the punches. Cool metal at his back, and he dropped to the floor right as the fists connected with where he had been, the Furaiken piercing solidly between the third's legs. In the same instant, his other hand found the first's ankle, a lightning storm tearing it open from the inside out before it had a chance to move.

Panting, Ky clambered to his feet, rushing towards where Andreyev had fallen. Carefully, he moved his head, elation flooding him at the thin exhalations hitting his palm as he did so.

"It's okay, Lieutenant," he murmured, shifting to lift him off the ground as gently as possible without disturbing the wound further. "We'll get you out of here in a moment. Just hang on."

He fumbled with the radio unit at his belt for a moment, his wet fingers slipping, and then—

"—out of there! _Get out of there_!" Kahren shrieked, her voice bordering on hysteria. "They're running the aerial assault protocol! Commander, we can't stop them! _Please_!"

And then another voice, a technician screaming loud enough to be heard over the intercom: "_Oh sweet merciful god they're launching_!"

Whether it was the magic grenades of the Order, or Zepp's feeble attempts at rocket launchers, projectiles had never been powerful enough to make an effective weapon against the Gears. The Stygeros was meant to change that. Sleek and compact in a way none had been before, the missile had been engineered to pack enough explosive power to smash through an armored Megadeath, and Ky stood at the center of the blast, cradling an injured man, as the world erupted into a sea of brilliant, all-consuming white.

.

.

.

.

-TBC-

.

* * *

.

A/N: Why yes, I'm exploiting the hell out of these cliffhangers. Thanks go to Tofu for combing through this, and thanks to everyone who's stuck by this fic. Comments are welcome. :)

Notes:  
- Order-tech = steampunk all the way.  
- I admit I've revamped the Robo-Kys a little; they've become a fusion of their regular version and Isuka's MKII because robots armed with a faux version of Justice's Gamma Ray are scary as hell. So they look like the originals, but fire an appropriate amount of deadly lasers.  
- Couriers are used for long-range communication in the field. They might have radio, but their portable technology really isn't good enough for anything that reaches very far.  
- Anyone who's wondering why Andrey wasn't using magic, it's because he can't. I think magically gifted people are probably pretty rare in comparison to regular folks, particularly strong ones. Any squad in the Order would have contained several regulars who were taught very thoroughly to take good care of their mages, because they're the best bet in battle.  
- Stygeros is a poetic name for Hades, lord of the dead. I couldn't very well keep the gag name. XD


	8. Interlude II: A Deeper Shade of Blue

**Title:** Going off the Record  
**Part:** Interlude (between 6 and 7)  
**Fandom:** Guilty Gear  
**Rating:** R  
**Warnings:** Alternate Timeline beginning around GGX, now with boom and stabbity

.

**Going off the Record**  
_Interlude II: A Deeper Shade of Blue_

_.  
_

.

_There's something about blue  
Asked myself what it's all for  
You know the funny thing about it  
I couldn't answer_

_~ Yoko Kanno, Blue_

_._

_

* * *

.  
_

It was a very serious affair.

An echoing hall that amplified every whisper, dust swirling in the dim light of the stained glass windows, heavy wing doors that required four men to close, and fell shut with appropriately fatalistic boom. A notary, a promoter of justice, three judges and their respective assessors, all clad in heavy, wide-shouldered robes, a golden stole draped around the judges' necks to denote their position. No defender, not that there was a need for one.

The judges remained seated in the pulpit, an ancient codex opened in front of them, stony and motionless as the promoter stated his case, so that with only slight absent-mindedness, they could have been mistaken for one of the marble carvings — saints and martyrs surrounded by a faded halo of leaf gilding, gazing dispassionately down at the accused, their fingers lifted in silent warning.

_In the name of the Supreme Pontiff, His Holiness the Pope..._

If he concentrated hard enough, Andreyev could pick out some figures he knew, fragments of memory from the Sunday Bible lessons of his childhood and the hearth-fire readings of his grandmother. Saint Paul shrouded in a toga, holding one of his epistles, Saint Sebastian tied to a withered tree and speared by a dozen arrows, the deeply lined face of Antipas of Pergamum, whom he remembered solely because being steamed alive in a brazen bull was something to remember a man by.

_...and by the Ecclesiastical Canons of the Same Holy Apostles..._

All in all, much too pompous a setting for a handful of soldiers, none of them important enough to so much as breathe in the direction of the judges. Half of them didn't even exceed the rank of sergeant. If he leaned forward just a bit, he could see the face of the radio girl a few seats down the bench — Tatyana, she'd insisted when she'd first transferred, from a tiny village where everyone called each other by first name — pale and wide-eyed like a rabbit lined up for slaughter, her white-knuckled fists tangled in the fabric of her coat.

She shouldn't have been here, eighteen and freshly promoted and just following orders because Gorsky had told her to shut up and Andreyev had told her to help. Nothing that warranted her sitting in the dock with senior officers, when all she'd done was huddle in hiding with a handful of papers to let someone know that the world had gone crazy.

He would have said as much, would have tried to spare her from being convicted for treason, except this wasn't about justice. It was about setting an example.

_...it has been decided to mete out the sentence in accordance with the gravity of the defendants' crimes._

There had been no plan, but all of them seemed to have collectively decided not to speak, anyway, to let the trial proceed in silence. Partly because they knew, like Andreyev, that their voices meant nothing to this court, that any word would be wasted breath, and partly because there was nothing else to do but refuse to speak when told to repent, that God would show mercy to those that would acknowledge the error of their ways.

It wasn't the smartest decision, perhaps, but he'd never been about smart decisions, didn't need to ask to know that those on the bench with him were thinking the same thing, had seen the shadows of parents and children staring out at them from the tear-stained faces of the refugees. Condemning people to death wasn't what he'd signed up for.

_The defendants shall be stripped of their rank, and sent to scout the Eastern outlands... where they shall remember the words of He who lives for ever and ever, who created the Heavens and all that is in them, and the earth and all that is in it, who bestowed upon us the will to victory, so that they may realize there is no price too great to perform His miracle._

The hammer fell like thunder. In unison, the judges rose, descending the steps of the pulpit as the great doors opened, their gaze not once straying from an indefinite point straight ahead of them, removed from mortal concerns. Andreyev didn't watch them go, his eyes instead on the ashen faces of his co-conspirators. His mind had been swept dry by a desert wind, leaving him gutted and hollow in its wake, unable to even experience sympathy.

The Order didn't do dishonorable discharge. Not when they were burning through recruits almost faster than they could be trained, when preachers all across the land were urging women to have more children, when boys couldn't age fast enough until they were finally able to wield a sword. Those guilty of misconduct were demoted, but not expelled, and those that became a problem quietly received reassignments, from which few ever returned. The outlands were the place for traitors and heretics, the many miles of land where countries were either too weak or the terrain was too difficult to keep up any steady defense, and only one thing roamed in abundance.

He should have been feeling anger, some kind of incandescent rage, or fear, but it all paled in comparison to the sense of finality welling up inside him. This was the face of forgiveness, the shield of divine protection, this was humanity — where struggles were only worthy in accordance with the Word, where things like the life and death of thousands meant nothing, if indeed they had ever meant anything at all.

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It was only afterwards, out in the sunshine, watching the leaves dance along the pathways in specks of color, that a sense of the immediate situation came flooding back to him. From his perch on the railing of the stone steps, he could watch his subordinates gathering around in a half-circle to stare aimlessly at the gravel to their feet. The young corporal was sniffling and rubbing at her eyes, one of the pilots hesitantly reaching out to pat her shoulder and offering her a handkerchief, while the rest of them were fumbling for words — unable to make sense of such a world, where fates were decided behind closed doors while everything else moved on, unaware and uncaring.

Andreyev tilted his face towards the sky, wide and bright out of the shadow of the buildings, with that special autumn clarity that made it seem like there was nothing keeping it from just descending upon the earth and swallowing it whole.

He'd wanted a moment alone, selfishly, but there was nothing else he could do when he was still feeling like he'd been grabbed by a giant hand and shaken, until everything around him was reduced to a dizzying blur. A bad decision, perhaps, when his team needed him — but that was over, wasn't it? They weren't his team any longer.

And still, Andreyev thought bitterly, they had to be glad it had turned out like this. In a twisted way, the sentence was indeed merciful, when the judges could have just as easily decided on excommunication — and could, still, at any sign of further disobedience. Most of his team had parents to protect and children to feed, for whom even the meager pay of a simple foot soldier was better than nothing. Or, like him, they still had friends, a place they wanted to keep safe. Nothing worse to imagine, then, that your family or your home were no longer entitled to protection from the Church because of your actions — no community to lend them strength, no doctors to treat them, no soldiers to save them in case of a raid.

Shaking his head, Andreyev closed his eyes against the expanse of blue, its vastness suddenly too much to bear. Now that he had the time to reflect on it, he was sure there should have been another way, a better way to disagree and save Moscow. Maybe if things hadn't been happening so fast, or so violently, maybe if he'd had the foresight or the skill or just the goddamn common sense not to end up in a cell.

If nothing else, he ought to at least find the words to convey how sorry he was... how sorry he would be for signing the death sentence of so many good soldiers. And if there weren't any, invent them.

"...Don't try."

The voice startled him badly, and he floundered for a moment, trying to catch his balance against the railing. He hadn't expected to be addressed in these venerable halls, and when he caught sight of the speaker, it was all he could do not to make an even bigger fool of himself. Stepping out of the cloister, Commander Kiske smiled apologetically, gesturing for him to remain seated before a salute could bring him into an even more precarious position. Andreyev hadn't even heard him approach, wasn't entirely sure if that was because he'd been so out of it or because the Commander was in the habit of simply appearing, there one moment and gone the next.

He looked younger somehow, less impressive than Andreyev remembered, with a childlike roundness to his cheeks that he hadn't noticed before — young enough to pass for one of the trainees wandering the grounds, the markings on his collar the only sign of his rank. That, and his voice, ever calm as he directed men through hell, carrying an unfaltering conviction that required no grand words to ring true.

Now was no exception, his tone quiet but firm as he turned his gaze to watch the group of soldiers. "Don't try to apologize. Loyalty is the greatest gift you can hope to receive. If people follow you willingly, knowing the cost... It never gets any easier to accept, but... try to treasure what they have entrusted to you."

Andreyev blinked, unsure how to talk to someone who was already well on his way to becoming a legend, now that there was no battle happening that dictated what he would say, and not entirely convinced that the Commander couldn't read minds. After Moscow, anything seemed possible.

"Sir, you—"

There was probably a pretty stupid expression on his face, because the Commander shook his head as he turned back, a hint of knowing gentleness in the quirk of his lips. "It's not all that hard to tell what is weighing on your mind, Lieutenant."

"...I'm sorry, sir."

"Sorry?"

The honest incredulity managed to chase away the last illusion of someone much older, all wide eyes and baffled squinting that made Andreyev reach back into his memory, rifling through the tales he'd heard of Commander Undersen's star pupils, children with exceptional abilities raised to pave the way to the future. It made him wonder just how young they were picked, when it was so easy to see his youngest sister in that face now, barely fourteen and just as guileless.

The spell was broken when the Commander lowered his gaze, a frown lingering between his brows. "I must have chosen the wrong words, then. I had actually hoped to put you at ease, somewhat." He paused. "No matter. The reason I came was to express regrets of my own. I was hoping they would be satisfied with concentrating the investigation on my person. It shouldn't have turned out like this. I am truly sorry."

"Sir?" A part of Andreyev was trying to come up with something more intelligent to say, but was repeatedly derailed by the realization that the acting commander of the army of the world was apologizing to him. "Did you... I mean, are you in trouble because of us, sir?"

"Not because of you, Lieutenant. I am responsible for my own actions."

He shrugged, an ease to the motion as if he were recalling a trivial event, like all the pomp and gravity meant nothing, and Andreyev realized that this was the reason they'd come after his people in the first place — revenge, some kind of hurt pride, because it was impossible to touch the Commander when they needed him to keep bringing the wins. He'd known for a good while that the Order wasn't all idealism and purity, but now he began to realize just how deep the chasms ran between word and action, how much you couldn't see until you rose high enough, or fell far enough to feel it yourself.

The Commander was watching him, his gaze strangely intent when he said, "I've received a reassignment to the Northern front, but it would have been necessary to go, regardless."

"Oh. Um." Andreyev bit his lip, and decided against mentioning the outlands. No need to cause the Commander unnecessary grief, when he'd already gone to such lengths to comfort a couple of no-name soldiers. "I guess this is goodbye, then, sir?"

"Well, not just yet."

Reaching into the folds of his coat, he extracted an envelope bearing the seal of the High Command, and handed it to Andreyev, whose eyes widened. "Sir, that's—"

"I heard you were heading an excellent team," the Commander said, nodding as if it were perfectly obvious. "And I happen to be missing a number of key staff. Operators, gunners... a lieutenant or two."

"I... Sir Kiske, I... thank you for such gracious consideration, but... we've already been reassigned, and... I no longer hold that rank, either."

"I know."

"You... know."

A smile, bright and innocent, and absolutely not matching the slyness in his tone. "One of the perks of my job, Lieutenant, is that I get to choose my own command staff."

Many years later, when Andreyev came to attribute most of the things he'd done in his life to his vow, and trace the roots of that vow to one sunny afternoon in late autumn, he would be able to find the words for the things he'd wanted to say back then. At the time, though, all he had been able to do was reach out mutely and clasp that outstretched hand with both of his own, past caring of how it might look or seem, because something deep inside his heart had suddenly opened up, and he knew, for the first time in his life, what it was like to hope.

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- TBC -

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**A/N: **Now that I've come this far, I admit I quite like how Andreyev and Ky's relationship unfolds present to past. It wasn't intentional, but at some point, the flashbacks started arranging themselves in reverse-chronological order. Anyway, that's enough out of me. Feedback is highly appreciated, as always.

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Now, for the little details:  
- Ecclesiastical courts were pretty widespread in the Middle Ages and wielded quite a lot of power. Now granted, what I've done here is pretty much a mix of everything I thought was cool, since hey, we're talking about a steampunk theocracy, no reason why we can't mix things up a bit.

- On excommunication: The matter of the Order keeping, well, order in its ranks was a bit of a headache. They obviously wouldn't discharge soldiers if they were fighting the devil incarnate, and the idea of a volunteer army just doesn't work, so that's what I came up with. Nothing to keep you in line like being afraid your family might end up Gear feed because of your misconduct.


	9. Chapter 7

**Title:** Going off the Record**  
Part:** 7/?**  
Fandom:** Guilty Gear**  
Rating:** R**  
Warnings:** Alternate Timeline beginning around GGX, boom and stabbity. Now contains 100% more Ky-whumping.

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**Going off the Record**

_Chapter VII_

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Witnesses would later describe it as heaven coming down.

At first, nothing — a moment slowed to eternity as four sleek silver shapes arched through the air, hovering suspended at their apex, before rushing into a merciless descent. And then, a light like a miniature sun, whiter and hotter than anything the world had seen in almost two-hundred years, rising from the center of the impact as an earthquake rocked the chamber, equipment falling, humans screaming. But from within rose a second, even brighter light, a brilliant storm tearing through the fire and roaring up the walls, windowpanes shattering and machines spewing sparks as the containment fields failed, before the entire complex was plunged into darkness.

Years of field experience kept the worst thing from happening — people crushing each other in a panicked scramble for the exits. All the officers on duty had served in the war, and had seen enough frightened stampedes to know how to quell one before it got rolling. Fire and ice flared to light up the observation bays, the quick flash of blades sending delegates skittering away in fright. A few found their wits enough to protest, but for most of them, being held at sword point was the final straw, and they allowed themselves to be herded into groups and escorted outside without a word.

No one spoke beyond shouts for help or recognition, tones remaining clipped and hands busy in the face of the unvoiced fear that they'd just lost the Commander. Unthinkable, that such a thing should kill him when he had survived battles a thousand times bloodier than this, but it was even more unthinkable that they would worry about the Commander before they worried about everyone else. It had always been the iron rule, unspoken, perhaps, but nonetheless real, that the lives of comrades and civilians would come before his own, and heaven help anyone who tried to do otherwise.

It would take a while before anyone had the mind to spare to notice the glow that was slowly creeping up along the walls of the test chamber, brighter than any of the makeshift torches, the same glow that some had glimpsed in the moment of the explosion. It remained quiet and steady, a muted play of light that helped to illuminate the true extent of the damage — the fallen pillars, the scattered, twisted metal, every door and staircase in the test chamber torn off its hinges like papier-mâché.

And it would be even longer before an officer managed to make his way through the expanse of the wreckage to see the epicenter where the floor had given out, and on the lower level, a dome of shining light had risen, blue like Sir Kiske's signature magic.

* * *

It had taken a good half century of death and dying before Kliff Undersen rose to take charge of the war effort, and thought to determine the reason why magic users kept dropping like flies. Those who knew him, his kids and his direct subordinates, would often hear him lecture about it, would be privy to his fury that high command wasn't taking measures to protect their best and most effective weapons against the Gears, was willing to cite a mysterious illness or the price to pay in exchange for a divine gift, but not get off its collective ass and do something to fix it.

Over the years, he would gather medics and doctors, who in turn would talk and plead and swear on the honor of Hippocrates, to give mages stable support teams that would act as a human warning system. A lot of things that should have been self-evident weren't, such as the fact that all-magic squads were almost completely useless, left defenseless once they reached their limit, or that magic users needed to eat twice as much as everyone else just to cope with the energy loss, or they would quite simply starve. It took normal people to watch them, to recognize the sudden jitters in their limbs and force them to rest, and years upon years to fully change the system, to assign soldiers into fixed groups whom they would protect and care for.

The most dangerous thing about magic drain wasn't its symptoms, or its long recovery period, but the fact that the mages didn't notice it happening, that the most tenacious ones wouldn't even fall unconscious until it was too late. A low burning sensation in their veins, a bit of dizziness that could just as easily be from lack of sleep or a mild blow to the head, and once they got past that point, it would fade, the user entering a trance not unlike a freezing person, who would keep flinging spells until their body just stopped.

Magic was a precious resource, to be carefully controlled and rationed, so nobody knew what would happen if a mage were to craft a spell that would require all his power at once. No one _could_ know, because it was something the body simply forbade, akin to trying to hold one's breath until everything shut down. And yet, this was what Ky was doing at the center of the storm, blindly and instinctively, willing every ounce of power in his body to resist — and discovering that in the eye of the raging elements, there lay only perfect silence.

He couldn't hear the shouts and the chaos, couldn't see beyond the wavering curtain of light, the soft pulsing flashes that occasionally formed in the expanse of blue-white brightness, sending ripples blending into one another like stones cast into a pond. He didn't know they came from the falling debris, barely even winced when a metal beam came crashing down, only to slide off like water on a bird wing and leave a kaleidoscope of swirls in its wake.

There was a strange joy in watching it, the way the patterns would spiral outward from the center and spread across the surface, only to disintegrate bit by bit. They were quite pretty, really; he'd always liked these colors and the way they flowed, how they would meld together under his fingertips with barely any effort at all, though he could no longer say how he knew them and why.

Everything was slowly slipping away, sliding into that blue-white horizon, thoughts robbed of their substance before they could even begin to take shape. He couldn't say how long he knelt there, or why it mattered, a profound sense of serenity rising from somewhere deep within and wrapping around him like a blanket, the conviction that it was alright to be here, wherever he was, and just watch that lazily twining light.

He felt safe and protected, the kind of safety only very small children experience, held in the arms of their mother — everything was fine, everything would be all right... It had been a long time since he'd been so sure of anything.

There had been... he'd been there before, hadn't he? Like this, just like this, the same bone-deep sense of rightness... he knew a place like this. Bells, a carillon for every hour of the day, scattering their sweet tune across high-walled yards and gardens. White towers, and echoing halls, banners waving from the gates. Scorch marks on the walls, shrieks and laughter all around him, more than one call for a bucket of water for every bush that was set ablaze. A hand in his hair, old and calloused, grabbing a hold of his head and jerking it gently back and forth, and though he could have ducked away from it, he never did, let the hand rest there as long as it would. Proof that he'd done well, that he belonged, that he'd be able to... what?

He was forgetting something, something important, but it was getting hard to even remember that he was forgetting, the concepts swallowed up like footprints by the rising tide. The sea... he'd always liked the sea, too, had welcomed the bite of the salty spray on his face, the roar of the surf battering against the shore, washing away blood and soot and fallen bodies, and... was that it?

No, no, that wasn't it, that was... not here, though he couldn't say what here was, either, even though it was— even though he had to—

"...Oi, kid."

The voice cut through his bewilderment, at once distant yet strangely clear, as if spoken right into his ear, its gruffness bringing on a surge of warmth. He knew that voice, even if he seemed to have misplaced all the occasions... it had been different, hadn't it, to be pushed and push back, to yell and shove and go rolling down a hill — inadvisable, that's what it had been, unfitting, and yet... the idea that he could lie there in the mud, giddy with laughter, and have a hand grab a hold of his collar, yanking him back to his feet...

"...What the hell do you think you're doing."

He blinked, thoughts skittering further away as he tried to answer, and found that he couldn't. What _was_ he doing?

"Nothing but trouble, you know that? Leaping straight into the fire for every stray kitten."

Ky smiled. He knew the answer to that.

_...Pot, kettle..._

"'Least I know when to fucking quit. Don't expect me to go warming up your frozen ass for you, I haven't—"

The words stung unexpectedly, more than they should have and more than he thought they would, when he'd been... busy, always busy, something to think about for later, when there wasn't so much to do, something for the small, dark hours of the morning when the questions were like visiting ghosts, asking why and how and what-if, whether there wasn't something he hadn't done, some small manner in which he'd failed to be worthy of trust—

And just like that, like a rubber band stretched taut, reality violently shivered back into place.

_You haven't done that in more than five years._

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* * *

_

Surfacing was like plunging into a lake of freezing water, at once registering the lances of ice spiking through his veins, the fact that his breath was fogging up as it had to claw its way out of his lungs. For a dizzying moment, Ky knew neither up nor down before the hard, flat surface of the marble started registering against his knees, and the cold burning of the shield spell leeching the heat from his body brought the situation back into sudden, acute focus.

He glanced down, his arms too numb to even feel the weight pressing against them, Andreyev's lifeless form bathed in the same white aura as everything else around him, his vision starting to play tricks on him the longer he kept fuelling the spell. He tried to move, to ascertain whether the lieutenant was even still breathing, when he became aware of another, different pull on his magic, much weaker than the first.

His hand had grabbed a hold of Andreyev's uniform over the left side of his chest, fingers frozen in a death-grip that wouldn't be removed. Though the material was still damp, no new blood seemed to be seeping through, and he realized with a start that this was because he was forcing a shield right into the other man's _body_, to seal off the gaping wound directly beside his heart.

Ky drew a shuddering breath, helplessly staring at his own hold on the darkened cloth. He'd treated a number of his own nastier wounds this way until a medic could spare the time to tend to him, but never another person's — and there was no telling, was there, whether he'd managed to inadvertently kill Andreyev with an uncontrolled burst of lightning, whether the spell hadn't managed to tear through every organ in his body and was simply holding everything together until he let go.

No time, though, no time to worry about things that had already happened; there would be enough moments to regret later, enough opportunities to blame himself and wish he'd put his foot down, play arbiter of fate for someone he'd always worried about, someone whose devotion was going to be the end of him. By God, but these things should have stopped with the war.

For now, though, he would have to think, and fast, figure out what to do as long as he was still conscious to do it. He didn't know what was happening outside the barrier, and had no means to check, no idea if the robots had been satisfied with taking him out, or if they were still out there waiting — or worse, trying to get to the people in the observation bays, if they hadn't done so already. He didn't even know how long he'd been out, dragged under by the torrent of his own magic, and there was also the matter of the creeping cold in every part of his body, coiling thicker and tighter with every passing second—

"...mmander? Commander?"

The sudden burst of noise in his skull was as much a miracle as it was hell on his overloading nerves, the radio unit tenaciously clinging to life against his ear.

"—ou... ere? —mmander!"

"...speaking," he breathed, surprised at how thin and reedy his voice sounded, barely able to form the words.

"—mmander! My God, it's—"

The transmission cut off, and then, a different voice took over, Jarre's more restrained tone quavering from the failing speaker. "Sir, we... out here... evacuated— can't... get to you."

The elation was like a rush, spiking through his system before he'd even managed to fully decipher the fragmented transmission, but if the major could talk like that, could speak to him with barely contained relief in his voice instead of shouting the body count into his ear, then it meant that maybe, mercifully, things weren't as bad as they could have been. Ky tried to wet his lips, found that he couldn't, and lowered his head to get closer to the mouthpiece. "Major... I need you to listen... very carefully. Do you have... a medical team with you?"

"Yes, sir. We're—"

"Good. That's good. Tell them... I can't drop the shield, not without... not without causing harm to the lieutenant. He's got... a severe stab wound... in the chest area. I've tried to stop the bleeding, but I can't... can't concentrate enough to terminate... only one spell. They'll both fall, and when they do... I'll need the healing spells good to go."

"—stood, sir..." A brief pause. "We're ready."

It was like flipping a switch. Even though Ky wanted to acknowledge the transmission, he couldn't, his body making the decision for him before he could so much as call out a warning. Letting go of the shield spell was almost as bad as forcing it into existence in the first place, every cell in his body screaming as the tension was suddenly lifted, only to come crashing back into him in a single, blinding instant.

When the world finally stopped swimming before his eyes, two healers in their yellow-rimmed uniforms had dropped to their knees next to them, a soft, steady glow radiating from their hands as they set to work on closing the gash. A few feet away, a group of stunned police personnel were hovering amidst a field of carnage, covered in dust and dirt, and not entirely sure what to do — they must have thought both of them dead, Ky realized, still taking in huge, shuddering gulps of air, and both of them probably looked the part of wraith, too, with all the blood gone from their faces.

"Move it!" a voice snapped, a gray-haired woman in a white overcoat shoving her way past the onlookers and cracking open her doctor's bag in mid-step. The healers barely glanced up, before obediently scooting aside to make room for her.

"We need to clear his lungs. You, over there!" She waved to the officers. "I'll need someone to keep his head still and check his breathing. Stop gawking and help out."

"Y-Yes'm!"

Her hands never stilling as she pulled out instruments and needles, the doctor briefly glanced at Ky, a look of surprise darting across her features. "You can let go now, Sir Kiske," she said, in a slightly kinder tone. "I assure you, we'll do everything we can."

"Pardon?" Ky blinked, staring down to where he was still holding on, supporting Andreyev's back and obstructing the healers from getting to the wound. He tried to move his fingers, but they still wouldn't obey, the numbness radiating all the way up into his biceps. "Oh. I'm sorry, I—"

The doctor bent forward a little further, her expression growing sharp when she noticed the ghastly brightness of his eyes. "I understand. You! Lend a hand! And somebody get me a support caster. We've got a grade four drain patient here!"

"Sir, if I may...?" Jarre had moved to his side, deftly helping to loosen his fingers, and offering his arm for assistance.

"Thank you, Major. I'm fine," Ky murmured, though it took him two tries to actually rise to his feet and step away, and another minute to get the world to stop tilting towards a blankness that didn't exist. "Please, don't trouble yourself."

Jarre didn't look the least bit convinced, but then again, Ky thought, being a human icicle didn't make for a very convincing argument. It was nothing he hadn't done before, really, but the major didn't know that, none of the officers in attendance knew, since he'd always taken care not to let the soldiers see when he was hurt, or sick, or both. All he needed was a moment to sit down, to catch his breath and _think_...

"Sir, can I... I mean, would you like some water?" Jarre was still hovering, trying not to look too much like he was preparing to step in if Ky's knees gave out, and yet, past his professional assistance, it was easy to recognize the look in his eyes, fear and relief blending into stunned bewilderment at the thought that he was talking to someone who shouldn't have been alive.

Ky shook his head to clear it, and quickly found out that it was a bad idea as his vision started slipping again. It was getting hard to focus now that the adrenaline was draining from his body, leaving his brain feebly grasping for all the things he'd need to do from here on out. Eventually, he said quietly, "No, Major... I want you to order a lock-down. If anyone asks... this qualifies as a blacktech incident now. Take a team and record everything you can get your hands on, very carefully. If you can..."

Rubbing his hands against his thighs to get some feeling back in them, he lowered his voice even further, "...you have my permission to seize evidence."

"Understood, sir." Jarre hesitated. "But the Church—"

"It won't last, I'm sure. They'll want... their toys back, and we'll have to bow out. But we'll have a few hours. Let's make the best of them."

With a nod and a lingering look, the major excused himself, allowing Ky a minute to regain his bearings.

It wouldn't last... none of it would last, not with so many influential people involved, but for now, it was all he could do. At least, it would maintain order until he was back on his feet again; word would get out, and then there would be thousands of festival goers to calm down in addition to any shaken diplomats, frightened people whose only experience with technology were sermons and fairy tales. More than that, though, it would keep the officers busy, too busy to start giving in to their feelings.

They were good people, all of them, those who hadn't served directly under him had been handpicked by those who had, but Ky held no illusion as to their disposition. No matter what job they took up, they would always be soldiers, had given too much of their lives to the war and the army not to feel the service in their very bones, but beyond that, they had signed their lives over to him, and would always be _his_ soldiers first. Ky had come to accept that, yet now it meant that once the shell-shock subsided, there would be several hundred veteran fighters beyond furious at the idea that someone would harm two of their own. Unless they were reined in, given an immediate task, there was no telling what they might do.

A wave of nausea rolled over him as he tried to move out of the way, two medics with a stretcher brushing past him to join the healers in their efforts. From his vantage point, he couldn't tell exactly what was happening, whether any of the spells would even stick, all urgent gestures and hushed exchanges that rang like white noise in his ears. Briefly, one of the healers shifted, allowing for a glimpse at Andreyev's face, as deathly pale as it had been inside the dome, and the only solace lay in knowing that they hadn't stopped casting, the green glow flickering and rekindling at regular intervals.

He took a deep breath, felt his lungs stutter and seize up on the task, a stern warning that he better stop trying to do much of anything for the time being.

It seemed so laughable now, that not two days ago, they'd all been convinced it would just be another function, just an event to stand guard at and get through, and now, he was looking at the ruins of the testing complex, not even sure his decision wouldn't cost a good man his life. Madness, this was madness, different threads convening to weave a tangled, grotesque web where humans built the inhuman and aimed it at each other — so easily, so terribly casually, as if two centuries of death and loss and suffering simply didn't _matter_... and Andreyev was to be merely the first in a long line of sacrifices, none of whom meant anything at all.

A second wave of nausea struck, longer and harder than the first, sending Ky stumbling back against a capsized pillar. His concentration was unraveling rapidly, replacing thought and reason with the blaring alarm signals of his body. The tendrils of ice were still crawling upwards through his limbs despite his refusal to acknowledge them, and the harder he fought to retain his grip on awareness, to keep his breathing slow and his head clear, the more viciously the drain symptoms surged back up, alternately slowing down and speeding up what was happening before his eyes, his own pulse pounding so loudly in his ears that it felt like the vessels were about to burst.

Ky splayed his hands against the metal surface to steady himself, working to shove everything out of his mind — impressions, feelings, even that overwhelming cold, to just wipe everything clean and regain control of himself. All he needed was the mind, not the body; as long as he could think, he could keep going. He could always rest later, when the fires were under control, when the plans were in full motion and all that remained was to wait and see, but first... but first...

He'd done it enough times in the war. Rock bottom was never truly rock bottom, just a wall he hit in the depths of himself once he cut back far enough on food, rest and essential bodily fluids. If he was careful, though, he could keep going, not deeper but further against that wall, could dig his fingers in and start feeling his way along its surface, step after measured step. When he was especially cautious, he still had enough resources to last him for hours after that, more than enough to give orders and sign forms and keep up morale, and when he ran out, well... it would be in the safety of his own tent, without anyone to see him and panic, with a pair of unfazed arms to catch him if he didn't make it all the way to the bed.

This time should have been no different, just a moment to close his eyes and find purchase in that wall again, except Ky had smashed right through rock bottom over an hour ago and had simply kept going, and the arms that eventually caught him were those of a stunned young medic, who hadn't been prepared for it at all.

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-TBC-

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**A/N:** I love magic. It means I can make my protagonists take missiles to the face. XD

At any rate, C&C is much appreciated.


	10. Interlude III: The truth is a compound

**Title:** Going off the Record**  
Part:** Interlude (between 7 and 8)**  
Fandom:** Guilty Gear**  
Characters:** Sol, Ky, obligatory cameos**  
Rating:** R**  
Warnings:** Alternate Timeline beginning around GGX, boom and stabbity. Now contains 100% more Ky-whumping.

**Notes:** Yes, another interlude. Kahren wanted to say something.

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**Going off the Record**

_Interlude III — The truth is always a compound of two half-truths  
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All her life, Lara Kahren had thought herself to be intimately familiar with death.

It was hard not to feel that way, growing up in a city that wasn't so much living as it was hanging on, constantly teetering on the edge of ruin. Not a day went by without a sortie, the gunships leaving port for a desperate and bloody battle that would send metal and bits of flesh raining out of the sky, sometimes human, sometimes Gear. Not a day that the familiar faces wouldn't be fewer and the streets feel emptier, another friend missing from the back alleys they'd sneak into and play during work breaks, another shop closing its shutters forever, the goods distributed evenly among its neighbors — engine parts, float stone fragments, memorabilia from a world that nobody could remember quite right.

Not a day without waking up to the fear that the shields might fall, that the next assault would rip away that flimsy dragonfly wing of security and send hell's legions plunging down between the buildings, tearing apart the only home there was. No one in Zepp was religious, a principle more than a personal choice, an opposition to the world of foolishness and blind faith that was stretching out so far below them, but there was little else to call the Gears, no other word than that of a bunch of make-believe from centuries ago that could encompass their full horror.

It had happened twice, the shields falling. The first time was so long ago that it had found its way into a children's story, the Legend of the Falling Sky. The second time was a lot closer, though Lara had been too young to have any real memory of it, only had the quavering whispers of her elders to go by and the devastated parts of the city, but they were enough to paint in her mind pictures of what it must have been like — Zepp's entire foundation trembling as one of the base reactors went up in flames, buildings crushed to dust under the monstrous bulk of the galleon Gears, carrying on their backs the small lizard creatures that would then proceed to tear through the fleeing masses in the streets. She knew the stories of people who had jumped, who'd been pursued by the Gears like hares in a hunt right until they hit the edge, and there was no more shield to keep them safe, no more shield to prevent them from leaping out into the empty air.

Gone, one of her instructors had said, an old man training the district children in the art of smelting, gone to be one with the wind. It was the closest thing to a good luck symbol Zepp had, dependant as they were on the whims of the wind, slipstreams pushing against the power of the engines, breeze and turbulence the only way to move the windmills and generate power, to bring the rain clouds and replenish their water supplies. And yet, Lara still remembered the way the old man had said it, head bent over the crucible, the molten copper collecting at its center and casting an orange glow on his face. His voice had been soft, barely audible over the snap-crackle-pop of the furnace, his eyebrows drawn and gaze intent as if sharing a precious secret.

It wasn't until she was older that she'd come to fully understand the implications, that expressing these sorts of sentiments came dangerously close to the despicable ideology of the ground-people, the very thing responsible for casting the world into a new stone age. But even before that, she'd known that the old man was talking nonsense, that the people who had jumped hadn't found their end with the wind.

Death was the driver on the engine of humanity, permeating even the most innocuous conversations in the form of a gloomy undercurrent, directing hundreds of anxious glances towards the transparent glint of the shield every day, and every hour of the day. Death was permanent, the only constant in this world, and what mattered wasn't that people died, but when, and how, that they gave death as good a run for its money as they could.

Lara understood that as well as everyone else, knew what it was like to lose someone and what it was like to flinch, involuntarily and instinctively, every time the ground shook, even if it was just the unexpected push of the engines. She'd never been forced to take up a weapon herself, but knew, or thought she knew, what it was like to fight and what it was like to kill, for every time she'd helped to pull a wrecked gunship back in and saw the pilot, burnt and twisted beyond recognition, bleeding out under the hands of the medics in attendance.

It would take her years to realize just how wrong she'd been.

* * *

Zepp was less a planned city and more something that grew in the making, streets that meandered for miles until they lost themselves in a nameless backyard, buildings that sprouted out of other buildings like mushrooms, held in place and stabilized by whatever means necessary, fence posts, chains, bits of old piping. Room was sparse, and yet, the city was shifting constantly, moving to accommodate everyone's need for a space of their own. It wasn't rare to claim a top-floor spot only to wake up a few days later to someone clambering around on one's roof, carefully laying out new foundations on an already precariously balanced construction and mumbling hi around a mouthful of nails, lovely place you've got there, good view, we'll be your upstairs neighbors.

Lara grew up in a place squashed between a barber's shop and a windmill engineer's atelier with several dozen fans plastered to its walls, though the outside staircase stopped at the barber's and from there on out, it was ladders along the sides of the building and, if you were fancy, small, crank-operated platforms that had to be worked by hand. People tying their washing to the guardrails was a constant reason for bickering among the tenants, as the water tended to come dribbling down chimneys or air holes whenever the wind was a little above a mild breeze, which was to say, all the time.

The base of this particular tower consisted of several small establishments, one of them being a worker's soup kitchen that would send the most tantalizing smells wafting up along the walls, a constant beacon for her and her siblings, who lived on a lunch break at two and dinner after dark. Her father ran a salvage business for rare artifacts, which he dug up or snatched from the witch-hunting priests at the risk of his life, and took back to fix them up in his shop. What constituted rare was somewhat open to interpretation, as he certainly didn't discriminate regarding the things he brought back — nobody did, really, when any scrap could prove to be a valuable clue to the past, any moldy, shredded book a treasure trove of information.

School started before the break of dawn and went for three hours, divided between the reading lessons of her mother and whatever one of the district people had to teach, smithing, basic mechanics, history lessons that were more gaps than substance. After that, it was off to the shop for all five of them, to man the counter or help fix the salvaged goods or run errands in the neighborhood. Lara, still too small to reach the workbench by herself, was mostly paired with her older siblings, though her brothers liked to use any excuse to sneak out and leave her stranded, on the receiving end of her father's wrath when he thought to check and found half his children gone.

He wasn't an unkind man, just very industriously minded, and there was nothing he hated more than slacking off on the job. Her brothers had long since learned to stay out late enough to avoid his tirades, and didn't mind going without supper because they had managed to charm some neighborhood girl or another out of some extras.

It was her sister who took pity on her, who would drag her aside when it came to splitting the day's chores and who, come nightfall, would gleefully raid their brothers' pockets for apples or sweets as reparation payments. Lacie could get away with it because was older by a good six years, taller and quick with the wrench so that the boys had learned not to pick fights with her. Lara liked her much better than her brothers, because she wouldn't talk down to her or pull her hair and make her take the blame for things she hadn't done. Instead, Lacie let her sit on the high chair when they had to mind the shop and split the coins evenly whenever a customer patted them on the head and muttered, "Keep the change."

"Gotta put something aside for the future," Lacie winked as she made the extra cash disappear in the seams of her and Lara's clothes, swift like a thief so no one would notice. Their father would have been furious if he knew, as all the money was family money and family money was to be used to improve the shop, but Lacie rolled her eyes and said, "That's not family money, just men's money," and scrounged up spare coins wherever she could.

Lara wasn't sure what kind of future she was meant to be saving for; the wireman down the street had seen her work on the engines and circuits and offered to take her on as an apprentice, said she was a natural and that he had connections, that she could easily be working for the big names in two, three years' time, but her father had refused. A sycophant that guy was, he said, just looking for discounts with a bunch of false compliments, and anyway, family business needed a family to run it.

Lacie seemed to know what she wanted, though she'd extracted a life oath before she'd shown her secret to Lara. Drawings of airships, dozens and hundreds of them, amassed over the years in unsupervised moments, scribbled on whatever piece of paper she happened to have on hand at the time. From then on, it fell to Lara to make them real, to take her sister's wild creations with the broad wings and massive rotor blades and lift them into the sky, sketching in the engine schematics under their shared blanket while Lacie clutched the oil lamp tightly because there was no sneaking electricity for unreasonable late-night conspiracies. It had been clear even then that their ideas wouldn't amount to much, that the business and the money would go to their older brothers, but neither of them had seen any harm in reveling in these midnight vigils, heads filled with dreams and brilliant birds.

It all went to pieces much faster than it should have. One after the other, their brothers were drafted to join the gunners in their struggle, and one after the other, they managed to get themselves shot out of the sky within six months of starting service. It left their mother wilting just a tiny bit more with every knock on the door, every time the air corps came calling with a folded flag, caps and hats shoved under their armpits, scratching their heads and saying sorry ma'am and our condolences ma'am and here's three months of your boys' pay in advance, we know you've got it rough, ma'am. Eventually, she'd shriveled into nothing, pale and small and not at all the woman who'd laughed at their father's dirty jokes and handled the unloading of the cargo boxes.

Their father refused to attend the funeral. He felt that she'd betrayed him by deciding to leave while he was still in this world, like the dead meant more to her than the living. He hadn't been the most affectionate man before, but now, his face turned hard and his words bitter, and if Lacie told him to stop cursing their mother, she got a slap for her trouble.

In the end, that, too, changed faster than it should have, when he went out on a salvage mission one day and just didn't return. They never learned what happened, though that was the way things tended to go for most salvagers, a run-in with a stray Gear swarm on the trade routes, or possibly some zealot with a crucifix and a pyre.

It fell to Lara and her sister to keep the shop running, to turn a respectable repair business into a junk dealer to see that some sort of money was still coming in. They were able to keep it going for a while longer like that, mostly supported by their father's old acquaintances, until one morning when Lacie took a look into the cashbox, slumped her shoulders, and decided to follow in their brothers' footsteps.

The military wasn't picky about where it was getting its gunners from. The air corps uniform made her look more girlish boy than boyish girl, brass buttons and stuffed shoulders and her hair cropped short just beneath the nape of her neck, the cap cocked at an angle the way all the pilots wore it. She'd smelled of engine exhaust and oil when she'd bent down to hug Lara goodbye, an embrace that was tighter than it should have been for all the upbeat words, chin up, write me, I'll be back before you know it.

She'd lasted almost a year.

It didn't help when they sent back her things, a small black case for her medals balanced on top, the Silver North Star and the red-striped ribbon for bravery and a laurel-framed brooch spelling "NATO" and nobody knew what that meant. It didn't help the gnawing feeling in the pit of Lara's stomach, knowing that she'd broken the promise, that she hadn't answered any of her sister's letters, unable to say anything in response to the lavish descriptions of the sky before dusk and the bubbly gossip about the attentions of one or two young men, because in the end, well... what difference did it make?

None at all, she decided, and there was no sense in staying and grieving for people who were irrevocably gone, their lives erased from the fabric of existence, so she packed up her schematics, stuffed the bills from her sister's pay into her pockets, and went to ask the wireman down the street about his connections.

* * *

She never thought twice when Meirth made his offer.

Lara hadn't known him all that well, someone who came and went in the weapons lab she was employed in at the time. What he was doing there was anyone's guess, usually slipping in and out of management offices she never cared to visit unless she had to, carrying his arrogance the way others carried their briefcases. Under different circumstances, she never would have chosen to work for him. He had the cutthroat persona of a salesman and that alone was enough to get him in the bad books with most engineers, who found marketing to be the natural enemy of imagination. No one seemed to know where he was from, either, who his affiliates were and what kind of reputation he had.

Most businesses in Zepp depended upon reputation, not just in terms of skill but reliability, trustworthiness and personal leanings. Nobody handed over their machinery to a workshop run by a drunkard unless they wanted to get blown to smithereens along with it, and someone who was offering too many discounts was sure to be selling poor quality merchandise. It wasn't any different for engineers. Lara had worked her way up almost solely by word of mouth, by doing favors to the friend of a friend of her employer's and having them drop her name elsewhere. She was good at what she did, intense and driven and everything else that came with the job, but places like the big idea labs of the Zeppian military would have been forever out of reach without her cred.

Someone who had no cred was bad news.

And yet, when Meirth came to see her one day with all the deceptive casualty of someone who was staking out a target, she found herself unable not to listen to his proposal.

Mechanical replacement warriors. Something better than flesh and blood, to throw at the Gears instead of irreplaceable lives.

On a certain level, Lara knew that the plan was ridiculous even by Zepp's standards, when even the simplest of robots took months to build and were about on par with children's gadgets in terms of general usefulness. Meirth seemed to know what he wanted, though, wasn't the type to joke around or waste money on a pipe dream, and the allure of the impossible was too hard to resist.

She got her own lab in a fenced-in compound, the type with guards posted outside and seamless doors that would only open with the right security clearance — a step up from the places she'd worked for, but not all that surprising given what she was meant to bring to life. The core team consisted of just twelve people who proved to be hard-working and dependable, able to fulfill any task with a minimum amount of questions. All of them without family, just like her, which made her suspect that maybe she'd been profiled, chosen not just because of her reputation but because there were no personal distractions in her life. At the time, she didn't pay too much attention to it, as inundated with work as she was, her mind overflowing with ideas. In retrospect, though, it seemed like a warning sign.

Meirth barely contributed anything beyond the initial concept and was hardly ever around, would only show up every few weeks for a progress briefing and to deliver data they were to use as the basis for the prototype's combat reactions. Lara didn't care where the data was coming from. It was a means to an end, a tool to accomplish a vision, and she found herself too absorbed in the actual experience of creation to worry much about the peculiarities. Just watching the first sign of life flicker through the metal held a sense of childlike wonder, teaching the bony fingers to curl and uncurl in response to her gestures and feeling that she was working closer to a solution, something that was going to change the world for the better.

The man by the name of Ky Kiske meant nothing to her at the time, just someone on the other side, hardly worth a thought. Meirth called him the best, a perfect soldier, and a perfect model for a machine that was meant to surpass anything a human could do, but that was as far as it went. It seemed like a good enough reason to choose someone, and no one in Zepp was particularly big on philosophy and ethics, certainly not when it came to dealing with the Church. This was the organization that thought gas lighters were the devil, and every child grew up on the idea that spiting dictatorial idiots was all within the line of patriotism.

The end of the war changed very little; though the overwhelming threat of annihilation had disappeared, there was still more than enough reason to keep going, more than enough dangerous Gears that posed a risk to Zepp, and a good number of pirates and other greedy groundfolk to attack the trade routes for cargo or beliefs. The project was to proceed according to schedule, and if she heard anything about Ky Kiske in the meantime, that he was the hero who had saved the world, the vanquisher of evil, the radiant star of the future — well, then it was an admirable feat that he'd managed to win the respect of Zepp's populace, but other than that, he remained what he was, a template on paper, a member of the organization that wanted to see her city burn.

She thought they were making good time, too, that the sponsors she never saw were pleased with their work, so she was stunned to come in to work one morning and find Meirth occupying her seat at the project table, spreading out an entirely new set of blueprints that had very little to do with her vision.

The robot's size was to be reduced by a good twelve centimeters to the irregular height of one-hundred seventy-eight, which threw everything off schedule and gave Miren and Gaus an aneurysm when they discovered that they'd have to find a way to further compress the fuel cells in order to cope with the alterations. The extendable raygun structure turned out to be too heavy to aim and fire correctly on the new model, and had to be completely overhauled to fit. Whole chunks of wiring had to be moved to compensate for the difference in weight distribution, and Meirth proved to be irritatingly inflexible when it came to compromises. He wanted all of the changes, and none of the loss in power.

Lara, already feeling angry and slighted, had a heated disagreement with him when he pushed to introduce a whole new set of ludicrously specific skills, swift overhead strikes and light-footed leaps better suited for a dancer than over a hundred kilograms of metal. Eventually, she had to cave and install a series of thrusters to even get the thing off the ground, which demanded an entirely new hydraulic system to prevent the circuits from overheating.

"If you find the changes so objectionable, by all means..."

There wasn't much to say in response to such an open threat, not much to do except stew silently over the amusement she'd glimpsed in his eyes, loathing the fact that she'd been stupid enough to think it was _her_ project, and loathing the fact that Meirth knew she was berating herself more than him. She'd be damned if she quit and let him win the laurels, though, and Meirth knew that, too, knew that she was too stubborn not to put up with being reduced to his assistant. Lara took a small amount of satisfaction from the fact that most of the team didn't seem to like him much, either, his condescending behavior grating on everyone's nerves the more unreasonable the changes became.

It made her wonder why he'd bothered to get involved now, of all times, why he hadn't stayed on from the very beginning if he'd had such a specific picture in mind, why he wasn't interested in hearing that the fragmentary close-combat data was messing with the modules for the long-range weapons, why he refused to have another swordfighter lend his moves as a template in order to iron out the flaws. The robot was working, and much better than she'd expected for a prototype, but there was simply no _way_ it would be able to copy someone's mannerisms so completely, and no need for it, either.

At least, that was what she thought for the longest time, right until she saw the new exoskeleton.

Making it human had never been the objective. Making it function was the primary goal, able to maneuver around obstacles, fast and powerful enough to reliably take down a Gear. A tank that could take a hit and keep going, that could analyze a situation and select the appropriate strategy from its programming. As much as machines were a part of her world, something had nonetheless instinctively kept Lara from making the robot resemble a human beyond a very superficial level, the bipedal basis was all she'd meant to borrow.

The original plating was featureless chrome, along with a harness that could carry additional ammo and the rocket launcher. Meirth had demanded that all extras be moved to the inside, something that had caused the team more than one sleepless night, but now she could finally see why. The new plating was modeled to resemble the human physique, right down to the small dips of the muscles, the fine stenciled outline of the fingernails. The only thing that wasn't human was the face, a flat, grotesque toy mask that made her uncomfortable for reasons she couldn't quite pinpoint.

"Makes you not wanna meet it in a dark alley," Anis joked when they put the face plating in place, though he didn't quite want to look at it, either, and Lara thought maybe that was what made them all avert their eyes, the human body paired with the inhuman face.

She couldn't fathom the reasons for such a choice, but was willing to keep making excuses for it anyway. Excuses were what she'd built her life on, half-truths that made it easy to shake off responsibility for the past — she'd been too young to stand up for herself and her sister had thrived more in the protector role than she did as the protected, she'd learned not to question her elders, so she couldn't interfere with Lacie's decision to go, she'd accepted Meirth's proposal for the challenge it posed, not because of the safety that success promised, the fairytale hope of a world free of conflict.

It was why the redesign had to be just an idiosyncrasy, a way to make it stand out, and the head partition only needed to house the sensors anyway, so there was no need to make it correspond. Lara could keep working on it as long as she managed to silence the voices of doubt, could see the project come to fruition and not have to face up to the fact that she was standing on top of a tower of lies.

* * *

"No rest for the wicked, I see."

Slowly, Lara turned from her position at the table, careful to school her features into an expression of neutrality. The darkness of the lab aided the illusion, the cool, greenish glow of the nighttime lighting casting criss-crossing shadows in the room. She'd learned a long time ago that Meirth positively delighted in startling others and wasn't at all above something as cheap as sneaking up on them, so the least she could do was not give him the response he craved. If anything, it only seemed to amuse him more.

"Just checking the containers," she said, working to keep the defensiveness from her tone. He liked to throw around phrases like that, cryptic enough to puzzle people and just ambiguous enough to make the words seem accusatory. "It's going to be a long trip, and I don't feel like sacrificing the project to poor storage conditions."

It was a lie, of course, but one she hoped he wouldn't see through immediately, as determined as he was to view others as simpletons, and her as a little girl. The integrity of the cargo containers was the last thing on her mind; instead, she'd been engaged in a staring contest with the prototype, which was to remain unpacked until tomorrow for last minute measurements, trying to will herself not to feel creeped out by her own handiwork.

This was the thing that had given her so much joy for the longest time, into whose creation she'd poured all her creativity and energy, and yet, looking at it now was looking at something that wasn't hers at all, something alien that made her feel like its target instead of its master. But how couldn't she, when practically every aspect was beyond her control?

With a flick of her wrist, she slid the notes back into their folder, glad that she'd forgone turning on the desk lamp because it meant Meirth couldn't make out the contents from where he was leaning against the door frame, couldn't see that she'd been looking over papers which she'd swiped from his office. A stack of reports, a detailed profile and a photograph, taken while its subject was unaware, blue eyes, blond hair and flowing white clothes, the unmistakable original to the metal copy that was standing on its pedestal in the middle of the room, a travesty through difference.

Blurred though it was, the boy in the picture couldn't have been any older than Lacie when she'd left, nowhere near old enough to be called an adult. It was funny in a sad way how having a face to a name could change a situation, make it real in a way it hadn't been before, and send the doubts flooding back in. Ky Kiske's data was different from Ky Kiske the person, and Lara had spent the past few hours asking herself what a boy like that could possibly mean to someone like Meirth, to anyone whose interests he represented, and what it meant that the team was going to depart for Paris come morning, where they were sure to meet him.

"I wouldn't have pegged you as the type for stage fright," Meirth said, pushing away from the door and stepping closer.

She hadn't realized that she was clenching her hands, nails biting into the palm, and quickly flexed her fingers. "You know what I think of this."

"And I've been telling you to broaden your horizons, Lara. The world is more than just Zepp. We're at the dawn of a new age now, so it would be most foolish to remain so... set in your ways."

She shook her head, absurdly glad that her heels were giving her the advantage in height, that Meirth was forced to look up to meet her gaze. He didn't like it, which was precisely the reason she had started wearing them, knowing that he knew why she was willing to sacrifice the comfort of her feet for those extra two inches. "Then why bring it up again?"

They'd been cycling through the same argument for the past few weeks now, ever since Meirth had decided the robots were to appear at the World Fair, something neither Lara nor anyone else on the team felt comfortable with. They'd all been working to create something for Zepp, and past any feelings for their home, there were so many other concerns, so many disturbing ways in which it could all go horribly wrong; the matter of landing smack-dab in the middle of enemy territory, the idea of showing off a walking, thinking metal man to an audience of people who were barely educated enough to view fire as a tool, the idea of what the robots could do in the hands of any greedy, prejudiced ground lord. In comparison, the fact that she was going to have to look a young man in the eye and explain to him exactly why he was going to have to live with the existence of his artificial doppelgangers shouldn't have mattered as much as it did.

Meirth merely smiled, a facsimile of the real expression, airy and removed from such concerns. "Isn't that the duty of a leader?"

_No,_ she wanted to say, _no, that was /my/ duty, you supercilious bastard_, but didn't.

"Just look at it this way. If tomorrow goes smoothly, you will be remembered as the woman who ushered in a new era."

Lara turned back towards the prototype, gazing into the dim yellow of its eyes.

_That, of course, is the whole problem._

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The biggest and most obvious lie, and the one Lara Kahren kept hanging on to until the very end, was that it would be all right.

Clinging to a bit of desperate make-believe was the only way she could even begin to act out the charade, bow, smile, go over a hundred convenient explanations in her head, and simply hope that by some miracle, it wouldn't all end in disaster. For a short while, it went so unexpectedly well that she almost thought the crisis averted, when Ky Kiske turned out to be a reasonable man, composed and understanding and all the things she hadn't thought someone on the other side could be, that she was almost convinced she had gained an unexpected ally, someone who wanted to see things go to pieces as little as she did.

Now, in the middle of an underground test chamber a thousand miles from home, she had ample time to understand that it wasn't true, for the realization to slowly filter down from the top of her head like a trickle of sand, coarse and unwanted, to have it flow along her spine, between her ribs and past her belly, right down to the very tips of her toes.

It didn't matter that the controls under her fingers had locked up, that smoke and sparks were spewing from the instrument banks all around her, that her own voice was ringing in her ears as the harsh, terrified shriek of a madwoman. All that mattered, as she watched the missiles describe a perfect arc through the air, was the comprehension that she didn't know death, not like this and not at all, that none of her ideals or intentions were worth a single thing because two men were going to die, as surely as if she'd pulled the trigger herself.

The instant of the explosion only held room for a single thought, before she was thrown to the ground under a rain of glass, but it was sharp and clear like nothing else had ever been — it didn't matter what would happen from here on out, if the people of that world would ever forgive her for what she had done, because she wouldn't be able to forgive herself.

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-TBC-

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A/N:** I love my shades of gray. C&C is much appreciated.

_Notes for the Bored:_  
- More worldbuilding, now with Zepp as a city. Why? Because it's cool. I'm sort of borrowing the Laputa concept for it because I like the aesthetic along with all its problems. Other tweaks to follow.  
- Getting back to the asskicking soon. Among other things. You'll see. XD


	11. Chapter 8

**Title:** Going off the Record  
**Part:** 8/?  
**Fandom:** Guilty Gear  
**Pairing:** Sol/Ky  
**Rating:** R  
**Contains:** Alternate Timeline beginning around GGX, boom and stabbity. Now with 100% more snugglies.

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**Going off the Record**  
_Chapter VIII_

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The hotel room was spacious, with plush carpeting and the overly ornamental furniture the ground people were so fond of, small trinkets crowding the surfaces — dried flower arrangements, a clock carved from root wood, tiny, gift-wrapped French soaps smelling of lilies and violets that she had found herself unreasonably fond of not a day ago, and had to chide herself for wanting to take them back home, like anything Zepp offered wasn't good enough.

In all, the room was bigger than any of the worker's lodgings she was used to, with a fire crystal to heat her bath water and a bell to ring if she required anything — pillows, tea, absurdly sweet Parisian pastries — everything so comfy and inviting that Lara wanted to scream.

Only a day, and she couldn't stand the sight of it anymore, how everything was beckoning her to feel at home, sit down, have a drink, have a nap, be a guest. She didn't want the comfort, this cozy, clean haven, would have felt much better if she had been anywhere but here, with a maid to bring her lunch and dinner and aren't you hungry, ma'am, are you unwell, ma'am, if the food is not to your taste, ma'am, I'm sure I could ask the cook...

She had been absurdly glad when the maid had changed her demeanor in the afternoon, glaring whenever she entered the room, wordlessly placing down the tray and regarding her with a look like she was hoping Lara would choke on the whipped cream toppings, and it was terrible, wasn't it, to want such hatred when she had been so afraid of it not a week ago, to feel even the slightest bit like someone out there wanted to punish her.

Doubly terrible to want it knowing her team was facing similar consequences, when they had done nothing more than to put the robots together the way she told them to, and most of them... Miren, by the sky, Miren, so young that he couldn't even order a drink without being laughed out of the bar, who could have gone on to design for the very best... It wasn't so much a question of what the ground people would do, or who would be the one to do it — the police, the Church, or just an angry mob — but when, and would they even start a trial? What was there to try her about? An outsider, a heretic by their law, and she had...

_I killed two men today, Lacie._

The thought rose unbidden, sharp and jagged like a shard of glass stuck inside her mind. She had never spoken to her sister like this, as if she were still here, because that was the stuff of childish stories, heaven and hell were only part of fairy tales. And still...

_I killed two men today, and it was so easy... in and out... I didn't even have to do anything... did you know the human body is like butter, Lacie? You stick in a sword, and it comes right back out..._

Maybe it wasn't true, like so many other things she had made up, twisted and bent to forge into an armor for herself, maybe there did exist a part of her, small and hidden away from her rational side, who had always been yearning, wondering what her sister would say to this or that, whether she would laugh, or chide, or look at her with that awful, sad gaze she had never worn in real life...

_And it wasn't enough. One of them was still alive, but it wasn't enough..._

Perhaps the worst thing of all was that she didn't know what made it so terrible, what would dredge up the memories every time and embellish them, add the things she hadn't been able to see, as clear and vivid as if she had been standing in the middle of the firestorm herself, but safe, shielded by an invisible barrier while she watched them burn to death. Lara couldn't say what made them different from any other people her weapon would have been pointed against, any other hapless person who had been identified as the enemy.

Was it that she had been there to see, or that she had known them, had spoken to them and learned their names and caught all these tiny glimpses that only ever became significant in retrospect? Sir Kiske's polite, understanding tone, perhaps the friendliest interrogation she had ever undergone, the way his lieutenant had hovered, warily, never more than two steps behind, and she had been so convinced he hated her because she was Zeppian, and not because of what she could do, _would_ do to the one he had been trying so hard to protect.

Or was it that they had been innocent in every sense of the word, just two people who had never done her any harm, who had fought all their lives to make the world a safer, less miserable place?

Oh, how easy it was to unravel these thoughts and pry out the hypocrisy, the handful of people she personally knew against the thousands and hundreds of thousands she didn't — nameless, faceless, homeless — the good and virtuous against those for whom law and pride were unaffordable luxuries. Her own brothers had been philanderers who charmed naive girls out of their hard-earned money and honor, and her sister had been a thief, all of them the way they were because of circumstance, trying so hard to chase down a slice of a better life. She didn't even want to think about herself, and what that made her, with good intentions a dime a dozen and so very clever she could explain all the wrongs away.

Raking a hand through her hair, she straightened. Her feet hurt from all the high-heeled pacing, her throat was feeling tight and itchy and the gentle floral perfumes from the little soaps were driving her crazy. What use was there in flitting around her room, from wall to wall and door to window, thinking about life and death and forgiveness like a helpless damsel, when she still didn't know, had no idea what had happened?

Her machines, her creations had gone haywire, not one, not two, but all eight of them, had defied their programming and refused her shutdown commands, a system so integral she had painstakingly constructed it by hand and taught it to recognize her voice. In secret, too, without the knowledge of Meirth or any of her colleagues, because even then, a part of her had been doubtful, hadn't really believed all this talk about machines being better than man.

Finding the critical flaw would not unmake what had already happened, couldn't possibly be a consolation to all those who had lost the one they so revered, but at least, it would shed some light on this tangled, chaotic mess, point out in perfect clarity the shape of the cross she would happily let people nail her to.

When she opened the door, however, she found the corridor blocked by two officers on either side, one young, about Miren's age, the other older and with a long scar on his left cheek. Both grim-faced, their hands resting on their swords in a way that made her flinch involuntarily.

"Do you need anything, ma'am?"

Clipped tones, suspicious stares. If she'd had any hope of convincing anyone of her sincerity before, it certainly wasn't the case now. No sense in trying for an apology, though, no sense in doing anything but push on ahead.

"There's... The machines. Where are they?"

The officers exchanged a glance, as if debating whether or not to tell her, but eventually, the younger one said, "...in IPF custody, ma'am."

"I see. I know how this is going to sound, but... could you please take me there?" Their hands twitched into a firmer hold on their weapons, and Lara pressed her lips together. Who on Earth knew what they saw when they looked at her, perhaps some kind of half-mad terrorist who wasn't satisfied with taking their beloved captain away from them.

"I... please. This wasn't supposed to happen. None of this was supposed to happen, and... I'm the one who knows the most about them. At least, I want to find out what went wrong, so..."

"So you can rest easy, huh?"

"Jean..." the scarred officer said, giving his companion a warning stare.

"No." Lara shook her head firmly, an unjustified surge of anger spiking through her and making her hands clench, anger at the thought that she would deny responsibility for her creation, that this was all some scheme to unburden herself.

_Isn't it, though? Liar, liar, pants on fire... didn't you want to stop that?_

"Oh, come on," the younger one growled. "None of us were born yesterday, lady. You really think we'd allow the guys who almost killed the Commander—"

Her eyes widened. "Wait, _almost_?"

"What, surprised it didn't work out?"

"Jean," the officer said again.

"Oh, can it with the 'Jean, Jean'!" the younger one exploded, eyes blazing. "They fucking tried to murder the lieutenant and the Commander, and we're standing around making sure nothing gets to them like a couple of dumbasses instead of—"

"What the hell is going on here!"

The shout came from a tall, red-haired officer Lara distantly recognized as having been present during their disastrous first introduction at the festival, striding towards them at a brisk pace.

"Major Jarre! We were just—"

The major waved dismissively. "Spare me. I've pulled more than a dozen hotheads aside already, my quota for nice and understanding is gone for the day. I don't care whether you're worried, or scared, or just really bloody pissed, soldier, you're not the one who's got it rough and if you think the Commander's going to be thanking you for that bullshit attitude, think again. You wanna put that urge to talk to good use, go through a couple of rosaries." He paused, inhaling. "Thierry, do me a favor and get this guy downstairs, write up a report. And if I see him up here again, then so God help me, he's going to be mucking out stables for the rest of his life."

"Yes, sir." With a curt nod, the scarred officer gave his partner a push on the shoulder, escorting him down the corridor.

Jarre slowly let out the breath he had been holding, cheeks puffing excessively. "I'm deeply sorry about that, ma'am."

Biting her lip, Lara nodded. "It's... it's all right. I can't... Is it true what he said, though? About Sir Kiske? Is he really—"

The major raised an eyebrow, as if surprised at her concern. "The Commander and the lieutenant are getting treatment as we speak. Don't ask me how, don't ask me why, as far as I'm concerned it's a goddamn miracle, and you can think of that what you will."

"I..." She swallowed. "If that's true, then I _have_ to—"

"Listen, Doctor. I don't think you understand. This no longer about you, or your team, or the hellspawns you brought with you. This isn't even about us, or what we want. We're here to protect you when this whole thing goes up in flames. And I hope you realize that the only thing standing between your country and the pitchfork revenge crusade that is going to blow it out of the sky is currently down for the count. So if you want something to do, I suggest you go back to your room and start praying that he survives."

In the end, Lara wasn't sure what she said in response, if she said anything at all. She wasn't even sure how she had gotten back to her room, whether she had bid the major good night, turned around, and walked back by herself, or whether he had to help her, knees suddenly weak as jelly. In any case, this was how she found herself again, sitting on the floor with her back against the closed door, hands twisted up in the hem of her skirt and unable to summon a clear thought.

Prayer was a foreign concept, steeped in foolishness and mysticism, and she couldn't even begin to wrap her mind around the image of a god, an all-powerful something that was alternately sagely, white-bearded man or fantastical creature or anything in between, and the idea that it would listen, could be swayed to pity by the right words was more than just a little ridiculous, when it had failed to stop two hundred years of slaughter. And yet, she found that she had been mumbling in the back of her mind all along, to nothing and nobody in particular, soundlessly mouthing the words of the oldest, most graceless prayer in existence.

_...please..._

_._

_

* * *

.  
_

The first thing Ky noticed upon waking was the feeling of his cheek squashed against sixteen inches of compact human arm. Not really the most convenient way to lie down, the sort of hard-soft sensation and associated cricks one would get by sleeping on a pile of steaks, but it was better than his bedroll anyway, warm and alive and, in the spot right by his temple, the small bump of veins and the softly creasing skin of the elbow.

For a few seconds, he didn't move, held there by the oddly focused sensation of muscles bulging in time with the pounding in his skull and the absolute certainty that if he tried to do more than that, he'd throw up. He wasn't sure what he had done to be in danger of throwing up, but if it involved Sol making himself comfortable like that, stretching out on the cot full length to settle in for the wait, it had to be something big. Well, bigger than usual.

It was good to know that nothing was probably on fire, otherwise Sol wouldn't be here waiting for him to wake up, or perhaps things were on fire and Sol had simply stopped caring. He really couldn't tell, and couldn't quite summon the energy necessary for leaping up and getting on top of things again. It didn't bother him as much as it otherwise might have, as it _should_ have, cushioned as he was between the dull roar of the blood in his own ears, and, at his back, wedged against the edge of the cot, the reassuring wall of ill temper manifest.

He'd been here before, in this position, in the space that considerations of circumstances and morale couldn't quite reach, where everything was suffused with a strange sense of tranquility, where he was allowed to spend a few uninterrupted moments being not actually conscious in the crook of Sol's arm. Ky drew a breath, deep enough that the rush of air seemed like a shock, and felt Sol stir, no doubt aware of his waking long before he himself had been, but not getting ready — thankfully not getting ready — to extricate himself. It gave Ky a few moments to practice breathing again.

Sol was going to want his arm back some time, though, even if Ky didn't feel inclined to relinquish it just yet. Five more minutes of pins and needles stiffness wouldn't kill him, not after spending the better part of— hours? days? maybe not yet a week, or at least, hopefully not— as his personal replacement bedding. Still, maybe it was about time he made an effort. He couldn't keep ignoring the circumstances indefinitely, the fact that if he was out of commission like this, in here, with Sol acting as the final detour sign for anyone adamant enough to get past a whole line of other people to see him, then he was worrying the troops. And before he could get a status report, never mind go back outside to do damage control, it would be necessary to open his eyes first.

He tried, and quickly found out that was a bad idea, the visual impression of the beige tent fabric thrusting into his brain like a knife, bathed in streams of light that shouldn't have been there.

_Oh._

"You smell like half dead things."

The rough whisper slipped in between two beats of his pulse, an oddly considerate gesture when anything above that volume would have felt like a thunderstorm tearing through his inner ear. A puff of breath tickled the nape of his neck, and he thought Sol might be inhaling, snuffling like a dog as if to lend more credence to the insult.

"What..." Ky paused, groping for the words. "...what does half dead smell like?"

A huff-snort, this time closer to the side of his face, and he relished the wisp of relative coolness it brought. Moving very carefully, he inched closer to the bulge of the biceps without upsetting the position of his head too much, but found there really wasn't any 'closer' or 'further' when it came to the source of the heat.

"Are... are we on fire?"

Another sound of amusement, and then the temperature dropped abruptly, plunging a good five or six degrees, and he had to close his eyes again.

"You were giving me frostbite until ten minutes ago." A slight shift, tilting his head more to the left, and Ky had to swallow the bile rising in his throat. Sol reached around him to brush over his face, the rough fingerpads lighting sparks against his over-sensitized skin. "And now I could fry an egg on your forehead. For your information, this is not normal."

"I... know, I..."

_...just can't concentrate on ending that sentence._

"Could've fooled me," Sol said, more than able to pack a lifetime's amount of sarcastic derision into a voice that was barely louder than his breath. "Just because you _can_ doesn't mean you _should_. Can and should, Kiske. For a smart kid, you sure have problems with simple words."

Another shift, and then a small cup was nudging against his lips, the tang of salt-water filling his mouth and wetting his throat. Funny, he hadn't even realized that his tongue was feeling like a stretched-out piece of leather. He took slow sips, the humiliation of being fed like a sick child shrinking against the looming shadow of the bigger question of what had happened, the reason he was lying here like a piece of driftwood in the first place. He couldn't remember anything clearly, all jumbled images and impressions rolling in and out of focus like a game of marbles on a flat, grooveless surface.

Fire, there had been fire, and red lights and screaming... the tang of leaking coolant in the air... valves popping and spraying their scalding-hot steam all over the engine room— airship, they'd been on an airship, and the engine had—

"Where's the ship?" Jerking upright brought on a wave of nausea, the fierce rocking of the world momentarily overriding the blinding thought of the entire transporter gone, a hundred men plus mounts dead or bleeding out in the infirmary.

"Easy there, boyscout," Sol murmured, pushing him back down before his heaving stomach could demand its due. "Stuck arse-up outside camp. You ran out of juice some five minutes before touchdown."

"Then—!"

Sol's hand on his chest kept him from lurching fully upright again, pushing him back down more insistently this time around. "Crew's fine, plus or minus some head injury that makes about half of them think you're Jesus. Not that that's new or anything."

"They're..."

"Fine, yeah."

Closing his eyes tightly, Ky tried to counteract his graying vision and calm his pulse down to a more bearable rate. How foolish to forget himself like this, half-panicked at his own inability to separate memory from fabrication — the ship plowing into the ground nose-first, the fuselage splintering and going up in flames, and Sol being here, _him_ being here meant nothing, not when he knew that the other man could lift him up as if he weighed nothing, not when it was so easy to recall the sight of large, black wings...

"...How long was I out?"

"Does it matter?" Sol said somewhere above and to the right of him, and then the refilled cup was pushed against his lips before he could think to protest. "Drink. Can't have you kicking the bucket on my watch, the MOs would skin me alive."

If he'd had the mind to spare, Ky would have rolled his eyes. Instead, most of his attention was focused on swallowing, feeling the salty burn in the back of his throat. "Yes," he managed at last, fully aware that he was failing to impress Sol with his authority even more than usual. "How long."

Sol shrugged. "Day, day-and-a-half."

"What? Why didn't you—"

"Wake you? How many fingers am I holding up, kid."

Squinting, Ky tried to focus on the hand waggling in front of him, the bright, wavering aura making his eyes water. It wasn't truly there, he knew, just a figment conjured by his over-taxed mind and body, but its constant swaying was making his stomach roil again.

"Four," he moaned, throwing an arm across his face to block out the persistent play of light. "Now go away. Both of you."

There was a pause, indicating that the real answer had been one or five or anything in between, and he didn't need to look to know that Sol was staring at him crossly, muttering something about stupid fucking kids and their stupid fucking stubbornness playing stupid fucking battery for a stupid fucking ship, before the cup returned and he was once more thoroughly occupied with swallowing.

Technically, Sol was right, he should have been in the infirmary receiving an energy transfer from a support caster to get back on his feet, but the idea of lying there, in a space not his own, weak and confused and shot up on painkillers courtesy of a well-meaning doctor, wasn't at all a pleasant thought. Better to be here, where recovery would take more time but where he at least felt more foolish than vulnerable, and Sol knew him well enough not to push any drugs on him, could glare anyone into submission who tried.

Sometimes, he wondered how Commander Undersen had managed, and whether it made him a worse leader not be able to go it alone — or to be able, but to simply not _want_ to now that he knew what it was like to have someone at his side, someone so steadfastly unimpressed that formalities and reassurances, even feeling torn up over it, ceased to be of importance entirely. Maybe it did, and yet, if given the choice, he'd rather grasp this with both hands than let it go.

"Your lieutenant sent word, by the way," Sol said, pouring more salt water. "Made it to Berlin okay. He'll see about pitching another airship our way."

"Good... that's good."

"If all goes well, we'll be gone before the inquisition ever gets here."

Ky frowned. "Inquisition? What on Earth—"

With a shrug, Sol held the cup out to him again, and Ky found that he was now able to hold it without shaking too badly. Amazing what a bit of convoluted Order business could do for his head.

"They palmed a prototype off on us." Sol was frowning, staring straight ahead.

"Are you sure."

"Sure as I can be without checking it for myself. Sent a couple of the engineers here to take a look at what's left of the engine room, but I won't be surprised if they find the damn thing looks a lot different under the hood than what we're used to. Pretty clever, sticking it in one of the old hulls."

Wiping his mouth, Ky swore softly.

The practice wasn't new or even particularly uncommon, had been going on for longer than he'd been alive — gunners being outfitted with magic rifles that would explode in their hands, detection equipment that, in Sol's words, wouldn't be able to detect the boot kicking it off a cliff, maps so ill-conceived as to be nearly useless, medicine where one could never tell whether ten cc would kill or save a man, or turn out to be so diluted they could pass for water. He had seen it all somewhere along the line, knew that even though he checked and double-checked, there was never any telling when some supplier or another became stupid or greedy or desperate, when the resources ran out and they would just send along whatever half-baked, half-finished thing they had been able to hash out rather than owning up and causing a panic or endangering their contract with the Order.

In a way, Ky thought, they all had to be grateful it had taken the builders this long to start cutting corners on the airships.

A fragment of memory floated up, disjointed and uncertain, of the reactor amidst the flames, the huge machine creaking and tearing at the seams, and so close to it, he had sensed the flow of magic, had been able to feel—

"I think they might have done something to the float stone," he said slowly. "When I was in there, it felt strange... like the magic was all wrong..."

Sol looked at him sharply. "Wrong how?"

"I'm not sure... just odd, kind of... thick. Like goo." He paused, searching for a better expression for the oil-slick sensation of the current, but finding none. "Maybe they were trying for more power, maybe trying for... who knows. A reasonably skilled mage should be able to pick up on it, I think."

"Worth passing along, at any rate. I'll tell your fanboy next time he radios in."

Ky briefly contemplated an objection to the moniker, but settled for a sigh. Then, another thought occurred to him. "We'd better take along the crew. And anyone else who got a good look at the interior. If they're really sending the inquisitors to retrieve this thing..."

Sol nodded in agreement, versed enough in the ways of the upholders of justice and morals, who would rather seek to suppress any knowledge of an experimental airship that was prone to catastrophic failure than risk inspiring public distrust in the Order's decision-making.

From a certain angle, Ky even understood it, more than used to treading the line between truth and deception. The further one went down the chain of command, the more people were out of the loop, until one hit the common ranks full of soldiers who were scarcely literate and struggling to face the nightmare of battle every day, who could do nothing but seek solace in the hope that their leaders would at least not put them in danger needlessly. To burden such people with the intricacies of bureaucracy, the pettiness, the in-fighting, the contradictions, was simply more than they would be able to bear. And yet, the censorship invoked by the inquisitors was absolute, with little room for shades of gray, certainly not enough room to acknowledge any failings on the Order's part sub rosa among the high-ranking officers. It was better to dodge where he could, and seek alternative means of keeping people out of harm's way.

"I should draw up the paperwork, then," he murmured, but found himself meeting a physical resistance deep within, his body exhausted far past capacity and only his mind chafing against the unauthorized command to rest.

Now that the shock of waking up with his memories out of order was subsiding, and strategizing was taking on a pleasant kind of familiarity, the feeling of serenity was starting to trickle back in, too, making him relax more than he meant to. He wasn't even aware that he was twining his fingers through the hair at the nape of Sol's neck, an automatic gesture born from many nights of sharing a bed, until Sol hummed low in his throat, moving closer.

"I'm starting to think I should knock you out more often, if this is the result."

"You'd take advantage of an injured man?" Ky asked mildly.

"Oh, so you _do_ admit you're laid up."

"That—"

"Sir? Sir Badguy?"

The quiet call pulled him out of his thoughts just in time to catch Sol's hackles rising at the honorific, steadfastly refusing its weight. Then, he realized that the voice was in fact a whole lot closer than he'd initially thought, the soldier nervously shuffling his feet in the small antechamber.

Ky flushed, at once aware of how their position had to look to an entrant, sharing a one-man cot with his shirt undone and Sol half-naked, one arm encircling his waist, before he realized that he needn't have bothered — the slight sway of the inner curtain revealing that the soldier had entered the tent backwards, determined not to disturb anyone's privacy. Sol, who wouldn't have felt the slightest bit awkward about being caught buck-naked and dancing on a table, made no move to let go.

"We've completed a first sweep of the engine deck, sir. The main pistons are practically worn through... I've never seen anything like it. Wouldn't be surprised if the whole thing just gave out mid-air, sir, but maybe you ought to take a look at 'em yourself."

"Hm. Be there in ten," Sol said. "And you better tell your team to start packing. We'll need a few extra hands in Berlin."

The soldier hesitated. "...Understood. Um. Sir? Is... I mean, uh, is the Commander going to be all right, sir?"

"The Commander is doing just fine, soldier," Ky said, cautiously raising himself on his elbows and smiling at the clink of buckles as the man snapped to attention, still facing the other way. "Thank you for your concern."

"Sir! My apologies, sir, I didn't know you were—"

"It's fine, please don't worry about it. I'll be up shortly."

"Sir! Yes, sir!" Once again, the buckles chimed, followed by the rustling of the outer flap as the soldier exited.

Flexing his arms, Sol sat up and started fishing around for his shirt. "You will, of course, do no such thing."

"I should—"

This time, Ky hit the pillow with a thump, the instinctive jolt upon being restrained barely able to raise the hairs on Sol's forearm. Grinning, Sol leaned down, intent on forcing his glare to become slightly cross-eyed. "You know, if you're crazy enough to play energizer bunny for a fucking ship, how about you do something else crazy and stay. in. bed."

"I have to talk to the crew, at least," Ky said, treated to the odd sight of the unreal bands of light flaring up along Sol's eyelashes whenever he blinked.

"Don't make me carry you to the infirmary," Sol murmured, pushing closer until they were almost nose to nose. "I'll do it. Ass-first."

"Threatening a superior officer?" Ky raised an eyebrow, though he was pretty sure it didn't look at all suave, more a bleary-eyed, sleep-rumpled approximation of it.

For a moment, Sol's smirk was electric. "Hmm. Court martial's gonna have to wait."

And before Ky could find a comeback to that, Sol delivered a swift nip to the tip of his nose.

His undignified yelp only elicited a smirk in response, Sol forever childish enough to derive satisfaction from derailing an argument by pulling the rug out from under his feet, and by the time Ky managed to wrestle the blanket into some semblance of submission, the other man had already swaggered outside. Sighing, Ky eased himself back down, rubbing at his burning cheeks.

_Stupid. No wonder he calls you kid. Now get out there and win the war._

He closed his eyes, pressed his palms against them, fatigue rushing in on the heels of embarrassment and determination, doggedly refusing to stay down. He couldn't seem to manage more than these little bursts of activity, his head clearer but considering the task of hunting down his boots and his sword and chasing after Sol a feat. Still, there were other things he could do, other things that were just as necessary. Reaching out, Ky felt around for the chair he always kept close at hand, stacked with a clipboard and emergency stationery for just such an occasion, and found it missing from the tent entirely.

The giggle burst forward almost of its own accord, incredulity mixing with exasperation and the realization that Sol knew him all too well, that he was lucky if the chair was just stuck in a tree somewhere and not a smoldering heap of wood behind his tent, as Sol thought absolutely nothing of moderation when it came to making his points. In a way, it was kind of nice to have his health considered worth incinerating a chair over, and it wasn't as if he couldn't get up, retrieve the necessary items from his desk...

Drawing a breath, Ky wormed his way back inside the blanket to ward off the sudden chill, his body temperature still flipping from hot to cold at the drop of a hat. In a minute... he'd get up and get to work in a minute, just this once inclined to enjoy the lingering heat trapped under the covers, oddly content with the knowledge that he might have a little while before he would become absolutely indispensable again, that Sol was for whatever reason willing to man the ship until then...

_Watch it, you're getting complacent._

He nodded to himself, fully aware that it was the truth, that Sol _had_ lured part of him away from his duty, gotten him started on shaving off a few minutes here and there for something nice to add to his day. Small things, insignificant things like getting a rub for his bruised back or butting heads over something completely superficial just for the pleasure of a good fight, but they took up time he could have spent in other, more useful ways. Still, it would have been foolish to resent Sol for it, when it had been his own decision, when it was so nice...

_Just because it's nice doesn't mean you can... this army is still your responsibility, and yours /alone/..._

Again, there would have been no way to refute the statement, nothing to say to it except "I know," but by then, Ky was already drifting away from his inner critics, sliding off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

.

* * *

.

When he woke again, it wasn't due to a noise or the unrest of fever, but simply due to his body deciding that he had slept enough. For a few moments, Ky simply lay there, not sure of the where or the when, but recalling that feeling of contentment, bone-deep and sure, the last vestiges of the dream — for it had been a dream, a recollection lifted from the depths of his consciousness by longing, the wish to return to a different time— a time that wasn't necessarily easier or simpler, but which stood in stark relief against the certainty that regardless of what they thought or wondered or didn't know about each other, between the sphere he kept close to himself and the sphere Sol guarded as his own, there lay scattered the handful of important things that both of them understood.

Or at least, that was what it had seemed like back then.

Right here and now, in the privacy of his own mind, Ky could acknowledge the thing for which he had lacked the words, the thing that never bore thinking about because it had both been far down his list of priorities, as anything to do with his own life had been in the war, and far larger than he'd cared to admit, perhaps larger than either of them had cared to admit. He still didn't have the proper words for it, wasn't even sure they were necessary so long as he could recognize the cues, but a facet of it had been safety; a part of him had enjoyed the feeling of security, of having something to return to, had felt happy to offer protection in return — not just for the world he loved, with all its countless people, but something smaller and more personal, something that cursed like a sailor and sent him rolling down muddy hillsides, something that buried its face against his throat and tensed whenever his questing fingers met the bulk of the headband.

In hindsight, it was almost funny how much the thing stood out, drawing his eye against his will, flashy, cracked, unwieldy, and entirely too much like its wearer. A barrier he couldn't touch, holding off everything he wasn't supposed to see.

And even knowing what lay beneath hadn't answered any of his questions, seeing the jagged red glow of butterfly wings etched into skin, familiar and terrible, and realizing the enormity of all the things he didn't know...

_I wanted to... even if you didn't want me to... I wanted to know, so I could do for you what you did for me._

Inwardly, Ky shook his head, staving off the chorus of questions with one hand, ever so ready to come spilling back out whenever his thoughts took off down this road. No use wishing for things to be different, no use wondering about what he couldn't change. One of these days, he was going to find the man, ignore all the stupid bullshit meant solely to bait him, and not stop zapping him until he got some real answers. There were days when it was so very tempting to just drop what he was doing to go chase the idiot down, not to rest until he got him, but that was a thought that existed outside of duties and obligations, outside his responsibilities and his position, in a pretend-world that revolved around only two of them, making their own rules.

For now, there were too many other things that needed his attention, things less selfish and more immediate. Drawing a breath, Ky braced himself, and allowed the real world to flood in.

.

* * *

.

The first thing he noticed was the muted play of sunlight on the blankets, and past a set of windows, the lush green of grass, blossoms drifting among the gravel paths and trailing along the edge of the fountains. A landscape he knew well, though not exactly from this angle, one he had strolled through on more than one occasion to gather his thoughts or have lunch in the shade of the trees — he was looking out at the Jardin du Luxembourg.

Blinking in confusion, Ky dug through his memory, but found he couldn't trace anything that had happened after he'd let the shield fall. Just fragments, light-hazy flashes of people shouting, of the lieutenant's slack, ashen face, his own hands, sticky with blood, and he didn't know, just didn't know whether the lieutenant had even been alive at that point—

He jerked upright, ignoring the protest from his sleep-heavy limbs, just intent on getting out of here, on finding someone who would be able to tell him—

"Oh!"

The cry took him by surprise, nearly sent him slipping to the floor still half-tangled in the blanket, his head protesting loudly at the sudden upheaval of its position. He caught himself on the headboard, shivering against the sudden rush of hot-cold sweat, and by the time the Earth stopped trying to throw him off, he found his arm gripped by frantic, fluttering fingers.

"Heavens, sir! You shouldn't even be up yet!"

He squinted, instinct registering the tugging and pulling as nonthreatening before his vision cleared enough to give him a face to the voice, a short, young girl in the blue-rimmed cap and apron of an apprenticing nurse doing her best to usher him back into bed and trying not to look like she was manhandling the savior of humanity.

"Sir Kiske, please. You must rest."

"'m not a sir anymore."

The awkward pause made him realize how stupid and nonsensical that must have sounded, his long-since internalized response to any type of fussing, but it seemed to help the cause somewhat, because the nurse gave a nervous titter.

"Well, um... we don't know what else to call you."

"It's... it's fine, I..."

Ky tried for a smile, was sure that it came out looking more woozy than friendly, but things were slowly starting to click into place. Someone, perhaps Jarre, had had the good sense to get him to the police headquarter's own hospital wing, away from prying eyes, and if this was the ward for the magic patients, then the girl — fifteen, maybe sixteen, and by the heavens, if he had really been that out of it, why had they sent someone so frail to look after him — had probably been in fear of her life.

There was another reason the Order mages had had several well-trained comrades to watch over them; getting a drained magic user to the infirmary was the easy part compared to stopping them from going on a delirious rampage, their body caught in the throes of drugs or backlash from the energy transfer. The story of the one ice mage who had managed to kill himself and thirteen other people by freezing the entire medical tent was a standard cautionary tale for every squad to not let compassion get in the way of knocking out their mages in any way they knew.

For them to send a tiny, untrained girl to care for a high-level lightning user... he'd really have to talk to someone about that, once he had his wits back. At the moment, it would have to suffice to make himself appear as harmless as possible, allowing himself to be guided back against the pillow.

"...I'm sorry for startling you, miss."

"No, no. It's quite all right." She flushed, making an attempt to tug up the covers. "I shouldn't be... I just didn't think... you weren't supposed to wake for a while yet, is all. Um. I... I better go fetch the doctor..."

Before Ky could reply, or perhaps find the presence of mind to ask her about Andreyev, she had vanished from his side and slipped out the door, her quickening footsteps fading down the hallway. Pressing his palms against his temple, he tried to clear his mind again, pushing any worry for the lieutenant or the nurse away and focusing solely on the drill.

Every mage learned the wake-up routine as part of his training, the best way to check himself for injuries and ask the relevant questions. He was in an unfamiliar room with no memory of how he'd gotten there, for the moment unguarded though not unsupervised. A plain white bed, a washbasin and a set of towels, a wooden crucifix over the door. Standard issue, nothing to worry about here.

Turning his senses inward, he listened for the flow of magic, the intricate pattern that was unique to him alone, now healthy and whole again; if he'd received a magic transfer, it must have been some time ago, long enough for the supporter's energy signature to be transformed and become entirely his own.

Safe to use.

Rolling his shoulders, Ky called forth the lightning, a flicker jumping between his fingertips that was more a swarm of blue-green fireflies than a spell, and immediately felt something in the room surge in warning. Wards, they had warded the place against patients going out of control, of course, and if he tried to do anything stronger than that, he would raise an alarm and most likely activate a dampening field — nothing a skilled magic user couldn't break out of, but it demanded concentration, which was something an out-of-control patient wouldn't have.

The sparks collected into a spinning whorl, slowly wavering to form a small star. Tricks he had taught himself long ago, when he had still barely been tall enough to peer across the counter in the Order mess hall, small fancies to keep practicing magic even while bent over a book, or a map, or a bowl of stew. The star stretched to become a vine, curling upwards along his wrist, leaves fluctuating in and out of existence along its length. Technically, the children had been forbidden from experimenting outside of training, most of them too unstable to try, but Ky had found it to come easy and naturally, and had seen no harm in trying as long as he was alone. Sculpting magic required far more control than just gathering it up and hurling it at a target, and lightning was the most fickle of them all, a type that was not content to stay in any given form, constantly straining against the shape it was in.

The vine uncurled from his wrist, slipping free to start looping in on itself, becoming a tangle of rotating rings. Ky nodded to himself and closed his hand around the magic, felt it puff out of existence as he did so. If he had the mental coordination for conjuring complex shapes, it meant he could rely on it for bigger and more dangerous spells, trust himself to make decisions without being influenced by the side effects of the supporter's magic.

With things as they were, he was going to need all he had soon enough, depending on how long he'd been out, how well things had worked out in the end. He remembered giving orders, eternally thankful for whatever it was that allowed him to stay lucid enough to keep thinking even while half-conscious, to realize that, no matter if he survived or not, no matter if Andreyev survived, they were now in the middle of an international crisis.

_'International crisis,' as if. Just call it a war, because that's what it's going to boil down to. You know they've got more than enough hardliners itching for action against Zepp. The only thing that ever held them back was the Gears, and these scientists just gave them the perfect excuse... /you/._

Insanity, all of it, to even think there were people ready to plunge headlong into another feud, that two hundred years of suffering somehow hadn't helped to quell avarice and hatred even a little — take Zepp, destroy Zepp, what did it matter to pit human lives against human lives, and if there had ever been any doubt, someone from the Flying City was just as eager for conflict, whoever was backing the good Doctor Meirth was just as interested in fanning the flames.

A new war, in the name of the Heavenly Kingdom.

Closing his eyes, Ky shuddered, something in him shying away from the thought of taking up arms against his fellow man.

_Who are we, Lord, that we cite Your name for our strifes and call them just?_

Shaking his head, he pushed himself upright again. Lying here and pondering all the sordid possibilities wasn't going to change anything. Someone had left a change of clothes folded on a chair beside the washbasin, and it was only now that he realized he'd been in his underwear the entire time, the old uniform most likely ruined beyond repair. If someone had thought to bring him something to wear, maybe things weren't quite as bad as he dreaded yet, since the small, mundane gestures were the first to go in a time of conflict and upheaval.

Splashing a few handfuls of water on his face and neck, he shook out the shirt, and found it to be the same as the spare he kept in his office, which meant Bernard or Jarre had been here in the interim, had found the _time_ to be here.

_I think when this is over, I owe a few people a drink._

What lay underneath his pants, though, half-crushed under the folds of fabric, didn't really look like it came from either of the two men, a handful of white marguerites that looked like they had been hastily pilfered from the flowerbeds outside. It didn't take much guesswork to figure out who had put them there; used as Ky had become to finding flowers on the doorstep to his own home, and this was a maiden's gift through and through, picked and smuggled inside while she was on break. Her being in the room when he awoke had likely been nothing more than an accident.

Scooping them up, Ky let them sink into the basin, inexplicably glad for her girlish whimsy, dangerous though it had been, a reminder of everything that was at stake, and an encouragement at the same time. He really ought to thank her, he thought, if he got the time.

"—don't care what you were doing in that room, Marianne." The door was pushed open again, revealing the same gray-haired doctor who had directed the medical team at ground zero, all flaring white coat and resolute temper. She had her elbow resting on the handle, both hands occupied with carrying a tray, and was turning back to argue with someone out of sight. "Honestly, you girls these days... this isn't fairy tales, this is medicine. You don't just drop in on a level four lightning user, you come to _me_."

Now that he wasn't devoting most of his resources to staying vertical and being worried sick about his lieutenant, Ky recognized her, one of the Order's veteran doctors, one of the few women, who had spent most of her life stitching soldiers back together and had decided that the change in uniform wouldn't make her task any different. They hadn't spoken much, little more than a few words of greeting on the way to and from a job, but he'd read her file, seen her work, and that was all he needed. Few military doctors were especially friendly; surrounded as they were by rowdy soldiers and unstable magic patients, being imposing and authoritative was more important than holding hands. Most of them were generals in their own right, commanding their staff as they would a small army.

"—act like you're in a hospital. Are we clear?"

"Crystal, ma'am," squeaked a voice he recognized as belonging to the nurse who had been here earlier.

"Good. Now go fetch that Bernard fellow or whoever. They'll want to know."

"Y-yes'm."

With a curt nod, the doctor pulled the door closed, and turned her piercing gaze on him.

"Doctor Perrine," Ky inclined his head. "I'm glad to see you well."

"And I'm not glad to see you out of bed, Sir Kiske," she said, gesturing with her tray for him to sit back down.

"I'm fine now, doctor. Thank you for taking care of me all this time."

"Oh, what hogwash. A patient telling the doctor he's fine. Well, not on my watch. We all took the Kiske oath back in the war." Perrine placed the tray on the small nightstand and fished a trumpet-shaped stethoscope out of her coat pocket. "Go on, go sit down. You know how it goes, sir."

"Pardon?" Ky asked, slightly bemused to have an oath named after him without his knowledge, and seated himself on the edge of the bed.

"'I swear by God and all the heavenly angels that I will not listen if the Commander says he's fine, and if I in any way value his health and well-being, I will bribe his Big Angry Shadow with a sixpack,'" she recited, a smirk curling at the corners of her mouth.

Ky couldn't help the grin, not sure if she was kidding or not, but at the same time all too easily able to envision the soldiers pooling money for that sort of thing, and... he hadn't been that bad, had he?

Doctor Perrine gave him a look. "You were one hell of a patient to care for. Now don't talk."

The stethoscope was cold against his bare skin, but there was little sense in objecting to the procedure as the doctor shuffled from side to side, checking his pulse, his breathing, his temperature, shining a light into his eyes and concluding the routine with a probing spell. Ky couldn't suppress the shiver as it swept over him, his own aura trembling upon contact like the surface of a pond in the wind — proof that he hadn't fully recovered yet, if such a simple thing could upset his balance so much.

The doctor narrowed her eyes.

"You're still suffering from drain symptoms," she said, turning to her tray, and began mixing medicines from various bottles. "I'd much prefer you stay here. You've put three of my best supporters on vacation, you know. Here."

A glass was shoved into his hands, and Ky frowned. "No. No drugs, doctor. I can't afford—"

"This isn't a drug, Commander, this is just a salt and nutrient cocktail to keep you on your feet. I know you're going to try and march out this door the minute my back is turned, and if I had any common sense at all, I'd tie you to the bed. It's a miracle we're even having this conversation. Honestly, for the longest time, I was more worried for you than your lieutenant."

Ky swallowed. "How— how is he? He's here, isn't he?"

"What he needs right now is rest. Lots and lots of rest. As do you, I might add, but I can already guess how this is going to go."

When she noticed his anxious stare, she sighed, her expression softening a little. "He will be fine, Commander. I have no idea what on Earth happened down there, but whatever you did... you saved his life." A slight smile. "Now, finish that up, if you want to be around for him to thank you for it."

Obediently, Ky downed the glass, trying not to grimace at the bitter, fish-oil taste of the concoction. "Am I free to go, then, doctor?"

Slowly, she nodded, though her sour look suggested she had been wishing to find something wrong enough to keep him confined to the bed for a while longer. "You can lead a horse to water, Commander, but you can't make it drink. And with you, I already know I'd have more luck with a stubborn mule."

Lips quirking ruefully, Ky set the glass down and began buttoning his shirt. "Our fight never changes, doctor. Just the battlefield."

Perrine didn't look up, screwing bottles shut and putting her instruments in order. "You'll find Sir Andreyev down the hall. Just five minutes, no longer."

"Thank you very much," Ky said, bowing as she gathered up her tray and turned to go.

In the door frame, she paused to look back at him over her shoulder, a shadow of weariness settling in her gaze as she did so. "Sometimes... I feel like all of this should have ended years ago. For everyone of us."

Picking up one of the drooping marguerites, Ky smiled softly. "If more people feel that way, then it just might."

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Andreyev's room was nearly identical to the one he had woken up in, simple, functional furniture and white walls, undecorated save for the cross over the door. The lieutenant himself was almost as pale as his sheets, his breathing so shallow that at first glance, he seemed barely alive at all. However, Ky had witnessed death often enough to note the differences, the near invisible signs that separated a deep sleeper from someone at the threshold — the slackness that suggested relaxation instead of the life fleeing the body, the tiny butterfly twitches of muscles working even during rest, and that certain ineffable quality which defied words but was nonetheless real all over, suggesting the presence of a soul.

Carefully, Ky stepped closer, though he knew he needn't have bothered to be as quiet as he was. Two small, four-pronged units had been placed on Andreyev's thickly bandaged chest, both flaring a light green, one infused with a tracking spell to check his breath and heart rate, and raise an alarm if necessary, the other exuding the thick, cotton cloud of a sleep spell to keep his rest even and undisturbed by nightmares. Hell to use on a mage, whose powers would be constantly working to repel the influence, but perfect for someone like Andreyev, who needed to be spared remembered pain.

"Good morning, lieutenant."

Over the years, Ky had held the hands of many men as they lay injured or dying. In infirmaries, on battlefields, he had murmured encouragements and prayers to ease their suffering, watched their eyes light up at the thought of someone come to be with them. He had taken more confessions than he could begin to count, listening to the innermost regrets of soldiers he hardly knew by more than name — drinking too hard, gambling too much, abusing the name of the Lord, lying with someone besides your girl, breaking your sister's favorite toy, not telling your father you love him — little pieces of so many people, so tragically, beautifully unique, and it´was humbling to know that he had likely been the last person in this world to talk to them.

He had never spoken as himself, forever the commander for whom they had laid down their lives, and now that he finally could, he found it surprisingly difficult to find the words. What was there to talk about that wasn't self-evident, _hopefully_ self-evident, all his gratitude for years of friendship and service? What use was there in speaking of worth and appreciation as if they were a revelation, sudden and momentary, rendered bright and obvious before the awareness of loss?

"I hope..."

Gingerly, he wrapped his fingers around Andreyev's open hand, felt the tracking spell surge momentarily as it sought to separate the lieutenant's heartbeat from his own.

"I hope you realize that this was a very, very stupid thing to do. I'll be expecting you in my office to have an extended talk about your combat performance. At this rate, I will have to refresh your memory a bit in the ring."

He chuckled, unable to make his stern disapproval even the least bit believable in the face of the idea that a tiny part of the lieutenant's brain might be aware enough to listen, and was now utterly inconsolable at receiving a lecture. Somehow, he had never been able to gentle his words enough to make Andreyev accept them as advice or concern, make them light enough to pass for teasing. At times, he wondered if it was perhaps his fault, too used to Sol, for whom everything held the potential for a joke or a game, never quite able to bridge the gap and shake off whatever it was that made him more legend than comrade, more leader than friend.

"You'll just take it as an order if I tell you to get well soon, so... I'll tell you to take it easy instead. Out of the two of us, one has to be the well-behaved patient." Giving Andreyev's hand a brief squeeze, Ky turned to go. "Rest well. I'll... we'll make sure the world is still standing until then."

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* * *

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"Commander, sir!"

The sudden shout was accompanied by the clatter of chairs and equipment as at least forty officers snapped to attention, sending pens and office utensils sailing to the floor. Before Ky could hope to return the salute or dismiss them, most of them chose to break with decorum of their own accord, rushing around their desks to bury him in a wave of exclamations and well-wishes.

He found himself alternately nodding and shaking his head, unable to get a word in edgewise, smiling, clasping hands, bowing his head for the motherly attentions of his secretary, who was so beside herself that she had abandoned her usual stiff propriety and was trying to check his temperature. Bernard seemed to be taking it a little better, content with squeezing his shoulder, though he was squinting a good deal more than normal, and Jarre was mostly shuffling his feet and muttering something along the lines of, "Please, don't ever do this to me again, sir."

There was no way to properly apologize for the worry he had caused, so Ky decided not to try, and apparently, the soldiers had collectively decided that it was enough to shake hands and to be allowed their own small litanies instead. It took a while for the excitement to die down, for the officers to realize that yes, they had been going in for the third shake in a row and yes, they had been calling the Commander names, and yes, the Commander seemed strangely happy about both.

How couldn't he be, though, knowing that he was loved by so many people, not as a symbol but as a fellow human being, precious enough to be reprimanded and cursed? If he had ever needed a reminder for why it was worth it to keep fighting, it had always been there, right in front of him, in every single one of these faces, some laughing, some trying hard to look like they weren't fighting tears.

_I know you always claimed not to get it, but weren't you ever glad to be needed in some way...?_

Eventually, the group began to disperse, shuffling backwards to their desks to pick up the fallen items. Miss Eloise mumbled something about cleaning and ducked away without meeting his eye again, to reconstruct her cool, efficient exterior. The only ones who remained were Major Jarre and Bernard, who was gathering his papers and pulling his reading glasses from his breast pocket, ever ready for whatever task Ky might set him to.

"It's good to have you back, sir," Jarre finally said, ducking his head in something that was half a bow, half an attempt to hide his flushed face. "In case you, uh, couldn't tell. Is Lieutenant Andreyev—?"

"It's good to be back, major," Ky said, smiling. "The lieutenant is recovering well, though he'll have to take it easy for a time. I'm sure he will be with us again, soon."

Gesturing for them to accompany him, he started off in the direction of his office. "Now, then, I require a full report of the situation. Everything you know, it doesn't matter if it's hearsay. It might still be useful. And I would really appreciate it if someone could tell me what day it is."

Bernard blinked. "You mean you don't know, sir?"

"Know?"

There was an awkward pause.

"...it's the 25th, sir. Whit Monday," Jarre said, the beginnings of a grin pulling at his lips. "That's one hell of a timing you have, sir."

"Whit... Monday. Really," Ky said slowly, trying to rein in the inappropriate urge to laugh — three days, only three days since the incident, and depending on what he did now, certain people were sure to deeply rue the day they had first decided to push the legend of the Order's messiah.

At his left, Bernard nodded, apparently on the same page. "It might be beneficial for us to move soon, sir. We've tried to keep things under wraps the best we could, but... there were a lot of people at FIRC, and some have started talking."

The major snorted. "'Talking.' A couple of the diplomats were scared shi— I mean, they were pretty shaken, sir. We, uh, kinda had to cut a few lines to keep them from sending a message home. Some are pretty reactionary, and it doesn't help that the Cardinal's there to stir things up."

"I thought as much," Ky said, nodding. "Good work. Who are we dealing with?"

"Silesia, Wallachia, Tuscany... mostly the small, unstable ones, really concerned with their autonomy. Ambassador Eisan from Germany and Lieutenant Commander Cylek from the Polish delegation have actually offered their assistance, should we need it."

Both of them ex-soldiers, used to emergency situations and not liable to immediately lose their temper, and given where things would end up in the long run, Ky knew they were going to need all the cool they could get.

"What about Zepp?"

"Quiet as mice so far, sir. We've got everyone confined to their hotel suites... our men are checking everyone who goes in or out, in case one of our over-eager friends tries something," Jarre said, though his expression managed to sufficiently convey his stance on the matter. "That bastard Meirth seemed awfully calm, though."

Drawing a breath, Ky flexed his hands, pushing away the unwelcome surge of anger. In due time, he would have questions of his own, but for now, it was useless to ponder them, and even more useless to listen to the small, tight coil in the pit of his stomach, instinct and rage balled together as one, that it hadn't been an accident, couldn't possibly have been an accident. It was times like this that he missed Sol's presence most of all, having someone so hot-tempered that it was easy to let him fume and hurl insults for them both, and be the rational one instead.

"As expected," he murmured, chasing the thoughts from his mind. "The Cardinal?"

"Well, sir... he's by far the loudest, trying to get everyone up in arms. Affront to the Vatican's goodwill, attempted murder of Our Savior—" He paused, allowing Ky the moment to suppress a wince, "—Attack on servants of the Holy Catholic Church, breach of blacktech laws on twenty-four accounts, death to the heretics, fire and brimstone on their floating Gomorrah, the whole nine yards. I swear, some of us almost got whiplash going from traitors to loyal subjects again."

"I expect he is willing to back up his threats?" Ky asked.

"Hell, sir," Jarre muttered, tugging at the lapels of his uniform and glancing at Bernard. "I like him better when he's screaming bloody murder. Don't care if it's all an act, at least we can tell what he's doing that way. It's amazing how many friends this guy has."

Bernard nodded gravely. "I'm afraid several communiques went through before we could stop them, sir. It seems he was bribing hotel staff to deliver them. I'm not sure where they went, but given that he's affiliated with the Ministry..."

"...it's not all that hard to guess," Ky finished, frowning, uncertain whether to consider this a double-cross on part of the Church or walking right into a trap.

Likely both at the same time, plans and back-up plans piling on top of yet more agendas, both sides thinking each other fools while engaging in a bizarre gamble with a fixed goal and the world as their gaming board. The most frightening idea was that the specifics of the outcome didn't seem to matter very much to either of them — Gregory and his allies didn't seem to care whether they could fool Zepp into selling their new super-weapons or whether they went to war without them, and whoever was backing Meirth didn't seem to care whether the in-fighting ground lords would turn the robots against each other first or just move against Zepp, confident they could win.

Win what exactly, Ky didn't know, as he was pretty certain by the time they were done, there would be nothing left. Humanity had nearly been crushed trying to shake off the yoke of the Gears, but fighting against each other, driven by centuries of ignorance and mutual blame...

Rounding a corner, they had reached the wing housing Ky's office, a carpeted corridor with doors opening to the inner courtyard of the Palais, and a row of floor-length, wrought iron windows opening to the front with its sprawling lawns and large fountain. The view tended to stop first-time visitors in their tracks, gazing upon something so peaceful and meticulously kept, and the reason it stopped Ky now, made him freeze in mid-step so suddenly that his companions stumbled, was one of similar wonder, dumbstruck at what he _couldn't_ see...

_...My goodness._

Flowers, the entire fountain had been transformed into a sea of flowers — roses, daffodils, the knotty pink bulbs of peonies, hundreds upon hundreds gently bobbing on the water's surface. Ky's fingers met the glass, an incredulous smile tugging at his lips, and he took this moment to send a prayer heavenward, a few simple words wrapped in relief, gratitude, gladness. If the people found themselves laying down flowers for the one they called their savior rather than crying for vengeance in his name, their hearts moved by compassion instead of blind fury, then maybe, there was a way after all, a way to keep everything from going to pieces.

_And love shall save the world... isn't that how it goes?_

With a last lingering look, Ky turned away to face his two subordinates. "All right. Bernard, please contact any delegates reasonably sympathetic to the situation and arrange a meeting post-haste. Also inform Miss Eloise that I will be requiring her services and of any staff she can spare; I'll need them to take dictation like they've never taken dictation before. Major, I want all officers present in the grand hall in fifteen minutes, and get me someone to clear up the space in front of the Place de l'Etoile."

"Understood, sir."

"Well, then, gentlemen. Let's get to work. We have a war to stop."

.

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-TBC-

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**A/N:** This chapter is also called, _"Ky: 'Wait, I have more things to say!'"_ XD In any case, comments and thoughts are very welcome, as always.

- Statistics indicate the gratuitious "shirtless Ky" moments are at a new high. Mrowr.  
- Yes, the men are touching. In _that_ way.  
- The management would like to apologize for the sore lack of Potemkin in this fic. This shall be remedied in future installments.  
- Yes, the IPF is in the Palais du Luxembourg. Why? Pretty men in a pretty building. (Seriously, have you _seen_ that place?)  
- Research suggests that 2182 will see Whitsun in May (margin of error: I suck at math).


	12. Chapter 9

**Title:** Going off the Record  
**Part:** 9/?  
**Fandom:** Guilty Gear  
**Pairing:** Sol/Ky  
**Rating:** R  
**Contains:** Alternate Timeline beginning around GGX, boom and stabbity. Now with some actual Sol/Ky. It only took us about eight chapters.**  
Notes: **Chapter posted in two parts because it got long.

**Summary: **Responsibilities gravitate to the person who can shoulder them. Ky, and the making of a savior.

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**Going off the Record**  
_Chapter IX_

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It was close to nightfall by the time some semblance of routine settled over the camp again. The rains had finally stopped around noon, leaving the downpour to collect and congeal in all the unwanted places, mixing with oil and coolant. All around, soldiers were beginning to put their own affairs in order, taking apart and scratching gunk out of the fine parts of their weapons, taking turns at fetching supper from the mess tent. Horses to be fed, wounds to be wrapped, the aftermath of a battle that had gone better than they could have hoped, a sense of tired, happy elation sweeping through the men that few emotions could match.

Ky had shrugged out of his damp overcoat, hanging the garment to dry on one of the corner poles that marked their makeshift command center, a sheet of canvas stretched taut across four free-standing struts. A favorable south wind had picked up that ruffled the awning and the maps on the table, chasing away the smell of burnt flesh, a battlefield set alight to prevent it from spreading disease. Here and there, a few embers were still flickering in the distance, their dying glow providing a sense of closure.

From a little ways away rose chanting, foreign words mixed with the soft beat of cymbals, the ringing of a band of chimes, and if he listened closely, he could pick out a few words, lines of old prayers rendered in that foreign tongue. Amazing, for a community that had lost everything, home and livestock and more than a few of its children, to let fear and sorrow fade as soon as they knelt together, singing the first notes of a psalm. Sometimes, he caught a glimpse of them, firelight shadows flashing in all directions — some of the women dancing, small bells tied to their wrists and ankles, their long headscarves swaying in time with their movements.

A couple of the soldiers had decided to sit with them, drawn by that strength of spirit, but Ky had refrained, unwilling to disrupt their private mourning with his presence and everything he stood for. People rarely behaved the same once he entered the picture, too focused on his rank, on paying respects where none were ever due, and so, it was enough to listen in for a time and continue his work in preparation for tomorrow.

"You really think this is gonna help?"

At the sound of the voice, Ky lowered the stylus and took a moment to stretch his arms, stiff from the tension of the fight and the subsequent clean-up. In front of him, the pile of blank metal tags clinked, waiting to be filled with names and dates of baptism, as well as the stamp of his personal seal. "Ultimately?"

Sol pushed back from the table, balancing his chair on its hind legs, and exhaled a puff of smoke. "Generally. Have yet to see a town lord who was thrilled to get a drifter colony."

"You'd be surprised what a bit of piety can do," Ky said, picking up a tag and beginning to stencil in a new name from his list. Names he had gotten where he could, where people spoke enough of any language to understand the soldiers' intentions, and baptismal dates he made up as he went, unlikely as it was that any but the oldest members of the community had ever received a ceremony by an ordained priest.

Drifter colonies formed much more often than the Order generally cared to acknowledge, people turned nomads upon losing their homes and never finding another place to stay. Some went as far back as three or four generations ago, gypsies, outcasts, or simply farmers from a land that had fallen to the Gears, forever without welcome. Their lives never amounted to much in the eyes of the brass; a couple of huts or caravans, a small number of animals as the most they could live off with no land to call their own and barely any opportunities for trade. Most towns jealously guarded their wealth and reserved the right to hand-pick those they accepted, usually chosen for their skills in a craft or good health — rarely the old or children, with the food rationed and the orphanages already overflowing, and rarely anyone who couldn't blend in, anyone whose habits or skin color marked them an outsider. A naming tablet was usually the only way to grant them even a shred of protection, by pronouncing them officially recorded by the Order. At least, it would mean they might not be accused of being thieves or vagabonds, witches or whores or whatever pretext could be manufactured for turning them away right at the gates.

"Most people will comply when it comes to doing the Lord's work." He picked up the stamp, and pressed it down on the thin plaque, leaving the imprint of the Order's crest paired with the lightning blade he had chosen for himself.

Sol tilted the chair forward again, crossing one leg over his knee to better spread out the maps he had been leafing through. As usual, his gaze was indecipherable, no way of telling whether the answer had surprised him or meant nothing at all, but Ky thought he might have seen something, regardless, some small glimmer of dark humor. "Not a very Catholic way of looking at it."

"Perhaps not, but... we're down to the kitchen sinks, aren't we," Ky said softly, placing another tablet on the completed pile. "How do the routes look?"

"About as well as you'd expect. Map's off, but not much. If we follow the river west, we should be able to use the canyons, save us some time. Should be all clear," Sol said, circling the area with a red pen. "The heavy gadgetry's going to slow us down either way, not like it's been much use so far."

"Strip what we can use, leave the rest. I don't see why they keep sending siege weapons to the field, anyway." Turning over a new tablet in his hands, Ky threw him a speculative look. "You think it's going to be Zaragoza, then, too?"

Sol shrugged, an easy roll of his shoulders that was just a bit too smooth to be entirely natural, the gesture of someone working on more than mere conjecture but entirely unwilling to explain himself. "It's logical, at any rate. If it falls, it's open season for the hinterlands and free passage to south France."

"That wouldn't do, no. With a bit of luck, the 37th will make it there just as we do. In that case—" He cut himself off.

The chanting and music had stopped abruptly, a silence settling in their wake. Steadily, voices began to rise from the crowd, growing until it escalated into shouting, an indistinct wailing as the shadows flashed erratically, people leaping to their feet with a sudden purpose. Frowning, Ky rose from his seat, listening to the chaos of voices, but finding himself unable to pick out even a single word for the way they were tangling and tripping into each other in their haste to reach the open air.

"Sounds urgent," Sol said, head cocked to the side to listen, but just as ill-versed in the strange dialect as he was.

"I'll check. I'd rather not—"

"—find some idiot hitting on the chieftain's daughter?" Sol finished, pushing back the chair to follow after him.

"I should hope not," Ky said, quickening his step down the little hill.

Most of the men knew how to behave themselves, strict as the honor code was and harsh as the punishments were, but there were so many things that could go wrong, regardless, some inconsiderate word, some misinterpreted custom, and most soldiers were from humble backgrounds, the Order their first taste of a wider world. If there was one thing he wasn't looking forward to, it was settling a dispute in a language he hardly understood, especially if the group was sounding more agitated by the second.

Coming out between the tents, the first thing he saw was that the drifters didn't seem to be poised for a fight. Most of them were simply standing or kneeling by themselves, raising their arms towards the sky, voices rising and falling in a rhythm that seemed like a litany or fervent prayer. A small group was clustered around the soldiers, wringing their hands and clamoring entreaties, the men looking completely out of their depth in the face of this many desperate people.

"Captain Arroyo, what's happening?"

The captain whirled, hastily signaling for Ky to retreat. "Sir Kiske! Stay back, they're—"

It had been the wrong thing to say. Within moments, Ky found himself surrounded on all sides, people rushing forward to crowd around him, laughing, crying, dozens of hands reaching for him, trying to feel his hair, his arms and hands, even the loose straps meant to fasten his shoulder armor, awed exclamations rising whenever someone managed to touch him. At his back, Sol cursed, shoved into the throng along with him, but a quick glance confirmed that the drifters were barely paying him any heed, just trying to brush past to get to Ky, to move closer in any way they knew.

Pushing the sheer strangeness aside, Ky fell back on all the lessons he'd received as a trainee, the sage advice of Commander Undersn as he lectured on the people's needs and expectations. It wasn't too different from dealing with a panicked crowd, so he did his best to respond to their urgency, to smile, meet their outstretched arms halfway, murmur words of comfort in Spanish and French in hopes of conveying calm, of making himself understood.

"Oi, Arroyo, the hell's going on here?" Sol again, a good head taller than everyone else, peering around to find the captain in the crowd.

"I— I don't know, sir!" Arroyo replied, surfacing somewhere to the left and surveying the near-hysterical people in complete bafflement. "All I know is... we were praying, and then someone mentioned the Commander, and all of a sudden they went nuts!"

"Don't know about you, kid," Sol shouted, leaning forward to make himself heard. "But your fans are a little too hands-on for me. Let's break up this autograph session!"

"Wait!" Ky yelled back. "If we can just get them to listen, maybe—"

He might as well have been whispering for all the attention Sol paid to his protest, a sphere of flames launching into the sky and exploding with a deafening bang. The drifters skittered back amidst frightened gasps, cowering and burying their faces in their hands.

"Sol!"

"What? They're listening now."

Favoring him with a glare, Ky moved closer, bending down to catch a glimpse of their features and show his good intentions.

"_I'm sorry for my subordinate's behavior. Please don't be alarmed, I only wish to speak with you,_" he said in Spanish, the closest language there was, but if anything, this only upset them more, some beginning to weep softly when he tried to offer his hand to help them back up. He frowned. Rash as Sol's actions had been, these people simply couldn't be strangers to magic, knew more than enough about persecution to scatter and run when they feared violence or capture. In fact, some were huddling right next to Sol, despite the fact that he'd been the one to set off the fireball.

Shaking his head, he turned to Arroyo. "Captain?"

"Yes, sir?"

"You speak the language, don't you?"

"Not too well, sir," the captain said, scratching the back of his head. "My grandmother's from the region, but I was a rather poor student. I can only get the gist if they talk slowly."

Ky nodded. "Still, I'd like to request your help. We're not getting anywhere like this... please let them know them that I apologize, and that there's nothing to be afraid of. I just want to know what's happened, what they need."

"Right away, sir," the captain said, before turning to translate.

A murmur went through the group, people glancing anxiously between each other, still not quite daring to look up. Again, not the behavior of a people that was expecting to be pursued by an oppressor, and they wouldn't have sat down to celebrate together, wouldn't have given out their names if they thought anything might be used against them. He had walked through enough slums to know how the poor and the downtrodden protected themselves, all banding together and proclaiming to have the same name, or no name at all, to have ten leaders or no leaders or anything in between, and their ability to simply disappear into the night, to slip into a back alley or the underbrush, never to be seen again.

Eventually, an old woman rose and came forward, her long, colorfully decorated headdress a sign of her status. The chieftain, or perhaps a priestess, Ky couldn't say for certain, but he had watched the old woman lead the people into camp, gathering them around herself in spite of her frailty, seeking to grant them security with the reach of her thin, bony arms. Now, the tassles on her scarf were nearly brushing the ground as she bowed, choosing her words carefully.

Arroyo had pursed his lips, trying to pick the meaning from her quavering speech. "She says... she says to forgive their poor manners. Her people... aren't received well in many places. So to be saved by the blessed one... is a day... of great joy for them."

"The blessed one?" Ky asked. "Does she mean God?"

"I don't know, sir, but I'm pretty sure that's what she said."

"Please tell her we are all God's children," Ky said, giving the old woman a reassuring smile. "Those who would say otherwise have closed their ears to the teachings, and their hearts to their fellow man."

The old woman nodded, blinking the sheen of tears from her eyes, bowing once more as she answered.

"Hearing the blessed one's words... makes her happy. She asks that they may be allowed to... receive his benediction." Arroyo paused, his frown deepening. "Sir, I... we've already explained the tablets to them. I have no idea what she's saying."

Ky didn't reply. In a corner of his mind, something had begun to tick, the same faint nagging sensation he knew well enough from before a battle, telling him there was more to a situation than met the eye. "Who is this blessed one?"

With a serene smile, the old woman raised a finger, pointing.

From the first day on, Kliff Undersn had sought to make clear to his pupils the difference between the rhetoric of command and the reality of it. Ky quite vividly remembered the posters he would bring to his lessons on politics and propaganda, the broad, elaborate woodcut prints showing a sea of spears united under the waving sword-and-crucifix banner, and knight captains decked out in full regalia, seated atop a rearing war horse, heroically pointing towards a distant, unseen goal. They'd all had a good giggle about it, most of them just ten or eleven but already versed enough in the ways of war to know that this was not how it worked, had never been how it worked. It would still be a while before they fully understood the meaning of those lessons, why the Commander had smiled and ruffled their hair indulgently, but hadn't derived the same hilarity from what seemed to them a brilliant misunderstanding, someone's misplaced illustrations of a fairytale.

Preparation, all of it, for times when they would need to know that truth had become a term stretched to breaking, that command was a place where fiction and fabriation gathered. That, if given the choice, most people would prefer the pristine, polished allure of a legend even if they were the ones who had first called that legend into being. In his campaigns, Ky had traveled far enough to see how feeble that allure had become, how little it was doing for the people who had seen the worst of it, were about to see the worst of it. The sight of a bold knight under a valiant banner was just another man in a bright cloak, and that man was just another body at the end of the day, one of thousands of human sons, born to simple people with simple lives, dying an inglorious death. He had seen them all, the masses of dead-eyed people, numb and empty from the years and years of loss, ready to take their own lives, the idea of choosing their own death a sweeter promise than the call to arms, the demand to fight the good fight.

_No._ He shook his head, mouth too dry to speak. _No, they wouldn't. Not this. They aren't stupid enough... they /wouldn't/._

_/...Wouldn't they?/_

The days of the Order as a symbol to rally around, waning. Commander Undersn, wise and strong and beloved by many but now nearing seventy, his back slowly bending to the weight of his sword. Himself, part of the last batch the Commander had personally trained, and the last of his children to survive, to carry on a crumbling legacy. And Captain Arroyo, still translating, telling of the street preachers announcing the arrival of a golden child, a savior sent by Heaven to aid humanity in its darkest hour.

"What the fucking hell?"

Sol's voice, full of irritation, so plain and no-nonsense that it formed a counterweight to the cannon ball that had lodged itself in his stomach, yanking him sharply out of his trance and back to the real world. The real world, where Arroyo and the other soldiers had gone pale and wide-eyed, torn between belief and disbelief, and over a hundred hopeful souls were gazing at him, waiting for his answer.

His refusal.

It would only be good and right to reject such a damning burden, blasphemy and insanity all wrapped into one — and to extinguish the flame of hope that had kindled in their eyes, easily the only thing that would keep them going.

Taking a deep breath, Ky stepped forward, baffled by the steadiness in his own voice as he spoke, the smile that shouldn't have been on his face at all. "Captain, please let them know... that if it is their wish, I will gladly sit with them, and grant whatever I can to set their hearts at ease."

* * *

In the end, Ky wasn't entirely sure how he had passed the evening. He remembered it, of course, sitting there in the midst of all these people, surrounded by their joy and gratitude, clasping their hands, reciting verses with them. Eating a bit of roasted meat and trying not to feel guilty about it, knowing it came from the last of their livestock, sacrificed in his honor before he had a chance to stop them. It should have been a wonderful thing to see the drifters so happy, to be able to give them at least a little bit of strength, some kind of reason to keep their heads high. And yet, it felt like he had been grabbed and shaken hard, losing touch with that single point somewhere deep within himself, that one grain of absolute space, a steady, calm center to help him brave any storm that he had always managed to hold on to, even if it was just with the tip of one finger.

It was that gratitude and fervent faith that did it, the eager readiness with which he went from just a person to something far greater, when he hadn't been doing anything other than carrying out his sworn duty, protecting people wherever he could. But nothing human could grant the security that people craved, when armies were mowed down with barely any effort, when no place in this world was truly safe, and the distant, invisible comforts of an intangible God could no longer offer a respite.

Miracle worker, then, instead of commander. God's Chosen instead of a mere man.

Ky understood that, understood the reasons and the need for it, and yet, he only had to think of the level of secrecy necessary for such a plan in order to feel mildly queasy. High Command had to have known he wouldn't agree, that only an utter fool would agree, and had thus used the priests and missionaries to disseminate a new legend, people who were already accepted as speakers of a divine truth. It made him wonder just when the plan had been born, whether it had anything to do with his own successes, or whether that plan had existed for longer than he was alive, to simply use the next commander candidate when worse came to worst.

There was a measure of comfort in the thought that Commander Undersn would protest on his behalf, was probably protesting right this minute, although the outcome was already fixed. He would have to accept it and bow out, just as Ky had to because the snowball had long since become an avalanche when even a group of drifters in the middle of nowhere had already heard the new gospel. It was sufficient make him dread the reception in the next crowded town, with a thousand or ten thousand citizens, all starving for glad tidings.

And yet, what use was there in worrying about it? Right now, he couldn't do anything, out in the highlands with a horde of Gears at his back and Zaragoza as their next target — it would be weeks before he could even think about lodging a formal complaint, in hopes of explaining to them just why the creation of a human messiah was nothing less than tactical suicide. For the moment, though, all it was doing was getting in the way of his plans and his ability to lead. Moments of doubt and fear for the future, the Commander had once said, were better reserved for a free and quiet hour, when they could be properly taken out the back and shot.

For the moment, the only thing to do was to shove everything aside, to try and regain that precious center of calm so he could make it through the coming days. Rest, then, time to wash up a little and shave off two or three hours of sleep before he would have to give the order to pull up the stakes and deal with the fact that the news of his promotion had spread like wildfire among the troops.

At this hour, his trek back to his tent at least went uninterrupted, without anyone to disturb the tidying of his mental space; the careful wrangling of that giant, ugly revelation into a far-off corner, the tallying and shelving of the things that awaited him on the coming day, each of them more important than his personal discomfort. Keeping that space in order was important if he wanted to have his priorities straight and still be able to sleep, not be kept awake by the myriad small worries that would crop up during a day — supply lines breaking down, weaponry malfunctioning, stubbornness or foolishness or simple accidents. By the time he had finished arranging his to-do list, however, it was much too late to gracefully back out of where his feet had pointed him — not his own tent, not even anywhere close to it, but to a place almost on the opposite side of camp, boots and a tattered overcoat strewn carelessly on the ground, the air smelling strongly of cheap tobacco.

If anything, Sol seemed as surprised to see him as Ky was to find himself there because he said nothing, staring at him from where he was seated on the edge of his cot, holding up a flaming fingertip to dry a pair of socks.

"What."

"I..."

_Wasn't paying attention to where I was going_ was an embarrassing thing to admit, certainly, but what stopped him was the simple question of why, why his subconscious had picked this place out of the hundreds of tents to stumble in on, if it had to pick a place at all.

"Got lost or something?" Sol was looking at him strangely, his tone not as snappish as it should have been.

"No, I..." Ky shook his head. "I apologize, I should..."

Go, for one, and stop stuttering for another. Anyone else, and he would have made them lose confidence in him by now, standing in their private space and fumbling for an explanation like an indecisive trainee.

"Ah, hell." With a sigh, Sol reached for his backpack, slumped against the foot of the bed, pulling out a slim metal canteen and holding it out to him. "Here."

"Um."

Rolling his eyes at his continued stalling, Sol waved the canteen up and down. "Yes, it's what you think and yes, it's non-regulation and yes, feel free to write that down in my file, if you can still find room. Now close the flap, it's getting drafty."

"I... thank you."

A snort as he trudged over to accept it, Sol pointedly inspecting the socks. It seemed as good an invitation to sit as any, and so he did, mindful not to take up too much room, slowly turning the flask between his hands. This close, the scent of cigarettes was even stronger, a handful of butts congregating at the side of the cot — two, three, six, much more than Sol was usually wont to go through in a day, never mind a few hours. An odd thing to focus on, but the alternative was examining the fabric of his pants, if he didn't want to intrude more than he already did.

"'S not going to drink itself, kid. Or do they make you take a vow for that, too?"

"No. No, I suppose not." Slowly, Ky unscrewed the cap, wrinkling his nose against the sharp aroma of juniper. Usually, he avoided alcohol just like painkillers, no more than a polite taste at a reception or party, anything that could throw him off his game and potentially cost lives, his own or someone else's. Just a small sip made his eyes water, but there was also something pleasantly focusing about the burn, something that drove home just where he was, and what he was doing, and that reality couldn't get any more off-kilter than this. Cautiously, he took another sip.

"Guess they got you good, if you aren't even bitching me out for this."

"I've never 'bitched you out' for that," Ky said. "That would be—"

He stopped. Sol was giving him a sidelong glance, a glint in his eye that was part amusement, part something he couldn't readily identify. "There. Reboot complete."

His lips twitched, more at the tone than the words themselves, a quip hidden in the gibberish Sol didn't feel like sharing. "It'll take me a while to swallow that."

"Who says you have to?"

"I think for once it's you who's ignorant of my position," Ky said, swirling the flask and hearing the liquid slosh inside. "Even if I refuse... what will it do, other than smash people's dreams? If they even believe me. My word against that of every monk and preacher in the land. If I'd known, perhaps... but I didn't."

"So you're just gonna go along with it?" Sol had finished wadding his socks into a ball, and was fishing for his packet of cigarettes. He flipped back the lid, scowling when he found it empty, and crumpled it in his fist. The next time he opened his hand, it was to shake off the ash.

"It's not like I want to. I know I can't be that guy. Anyone with an ounce of sanity wouldn't want me to be that guy, either, or anybody." Ky bit his lip. "It's not the obligations I dread... but... they can't hang this on me. They can't hang a hundred-year war on whether or not I get impaled tomorrow."

"Hn."

"I get why they would, but... this isn't a calculated risk. I almost died fifteen times just last week."

"Hn."

"You know what? If I do, and the chances aren't exactly minuscule... do me a favor. Throw some dirt on me and get on with it."

"...Yeah. Right. Sure."

Sol flexed his hands, examining the dirt at their feet, and for a moment, Ky wondered if he had gone too far, burdening someone just because he was durable and unfazed, so unlike all the soldiers who depended on his leadership and skill. Maybe this was what had led him here, the vague idea that Sol wouldn't care, wouldn't think any more or any less of him no matter what. Before he could think to apologize, though, Sol reached over, plucking the canteen from his hands and downing the contents in one long gulp.

"Remind me to never try and get you shitfaced, Kiske. I can already tell you'd be an honest drunk."

"Is that what this was supposed to be?" Ky asked, glad to latch onto something utterly inconsequential in the wake of this mess. He had crossed the line, had stretched their odd not-quite companionship beyond its limits, and this was Sol giving him an out, giving both of them an out.

"No. But it would make for a nice counter-campaign."

"Designed to utterly humiliate me, of course?"

"Minor details." Sol waved his hand dismissively and leaned back a little, intent on shaking off the atmosphere. "First, we get you wasted, then we'd have to teach you to swear—"

"I'm French. I know how to swear."

"No. You're the complete opposite of French. Whatever that is. Your Frenchness is stuffed into a deep, dark hole, and one day it will erupt and kill us all."

Ky gave him a wry look. "I think I'll settle for letting you pick up my slack in that area."

"Hm."

"What would be step three, then?"

"I'm kinda vague on that, still. Something involving no pants in public."

Ky wasn't quite sure what to attribute the giggles to. Maybe it was the expression on Sol's face, like he was earnestly calculating the level of depravity needed to turn public opinion around, or maybe it was the alcohol, spreading its warmth and a certain kind of relaxation, but suddenly, he couldn't hold it in any longer, all the tension spilling forth in peals of laughter. Dimly, he heard Sol give a huff of his own, but then, he was sprawled backwards across the cot and too busy clutching his stomach, his outburst adopting a slightly hysterical edge the longer it went.

"...no pants... in public," he managed eventually, hard-pressed to catch his breath. "That's... your solution... to everything, isn't it."

Sol shrugged, a faint smirk curling at the corners of his mouth. "We're talking about stopping people from thinking you're Jesus. You're not exactly making it easy."

"Yeah. I guess so." Ky reached up, wiping at his cheeks and pressing his palms against his eyes. The hilarity was slowly fading, leaving a kind of pleasant emptiness in its wake that he only knew from that special point, the absolute space. He sighed, drawing his legs closer, for the moment perfectly content to enjoy the return of that acute, perfect calm.

A hand nudged at his hip, just enough to give weight to the protest but not enough to actually shove him off. "Hey, don't you go falling asleep here."

"Okay," he mumbled, still preoccupied with himself.

"I'm serious."

"Yeah."

"Oi, lightweight."

"Hm?"

"I'm kicking you out in an hour."

The cot swayed, followed by the sounds of clinking buckles as Sol started rummaging through his backpack and grumbling about smokes.

Unseen, Ky smiled, the first time he'd truly felt like it all evening. "...Okay."

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- TBC -

* * *

**A/N:** Remember the days when this fic was meant to be a two-parter? No? Neither do I! XD Poor Ky, he seems to be spending an inordinate amount of times in this fic either down for the count or asleep, but I figure, the things he gets hit with kind of warrant it. Thanks for your patience, dear readers; we may slowly be getting somewhere.


	13. Chapter 10

**Title:** Going off the Record  
**Part:** 10/?  
**Fandom:** Guilty Gear  
**Pairing:** Sol/Ky  
**Rating:** R  
**Contains:** Alternate Timeline beginning around GGX, boom and stabbity. Now with some actual Sol/Ky. Approaching the point where we may cross the streams.

**Summary: **"Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated." Yep, Ky's back. And so is Andrey.

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**Going off the Record**

_Chapter X_

_._

_.  
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News of the incident was scarce to come by. Even those who had been at FIRC, who had the cuts and bruises to prove to themselves that what they had seen was real, knew little beyond what was needed to inspire the worst of rumors, snippets of half-truths that spread like wildfire among the unaware populace. The festival had all but shut down in the interim, stalls closing, visitors dwindling, a slow paralysis spreading throughout Paris the longer the confusion went. One story sounded more impossible than the next — there had been attack, there had been an accident, an assassination even, stories of Gears and fire-spewing demons blending with rumors of Zepp; Zepp was here, Zepp had done something, Zepp was the assailant, and in the middle of the chaos, the semi-official channels chimed in.

Half the bellmen in the city had reported Ky dead or dying, despite frantic police efforts to curb the worst assumptions, to tear down the leaflets that had somehow found their way on the town boards, telling seven different versions of the horrible story in pictures. The corner of Ky's mind that sounded suspiciously like Sol at all times had picked the illustration of him in the jaws of a coal-black serpent as his favorite, piercing the monster's skull with his sword. It was the embellishments that did it, he decided, a cloud of ethereally glowing feathers scattering all over from a pair of radiant, if broken-angled swan wings.

The rest of him had taken to ignoring the undue sense of dark humor, more concerned with the fuel some parties kept adding to the fire. The Church had gone ahead and decided to decree a worldwide mourning day, and he was relatively content to know it would take a few weeks for this tidbit to penetrate to all corners of Europe, enough time for his own messengers to beat them to the punch.

Less easily handled than the town criers and the overeager church couriers, though, was the group of terrified beggar children whom the officers had rounded up off the streets, some barely old enough to know who he was from anything other than fairytales, white with terror and in tears at the thought of going to hell for telling lies. It had taken Ky the better part of an hour to convince them that he wasn't descended from heaven to punish anyone, that they could touch him without fear of getting burned to a crisp, and bowls of milk-dipped brioche to get the full story out of them: how each had been paid one real, whole silver saint to tell others how the spirit of the Savior had come to them in a dream, to let them know of his dying wish.

It didn't take much to guess who the 'holy-looking men' from their descriptions were, and even less to imagine the message they had been meant to spread. There had been no room for anger then, as he waited for a sister from the nearby orphanage to arrive, sitting on the floor of his office and going through a rosary with the children, and no room for anger after that, full-well knowing that this was how propaganda worked, that these kids were simply the cheapest and easiest to manipulate.

He'd left it to Jarre to voice what he couldn't, in the space from one meeting to the next, until the harried Miss Eloise demanded he at least stop swearing during dictations, please and thank you. If Ky had thought the atmosphere strained before, when all they'd had to worry about were a bunch of prissy politicians who didn't like each other very much, it was certainly nothing compared to now, annoyance and inconvenience replaced by the same tension that would come before a battle — all working to be prepared, to gain an advantage, and none of them daring to think about what would happen if it weren't enough.

Ky did dare think about it because he had to, the best and the worst and the hundred possibilities in between forever side by side in his mind, because it was all too easy to envision the mourning bands that had begun to pop up along the window sills changing, transforming into the silver-stitched Order coat of arms. The only thing working for him now was all the misinformation, thousands of people wavering between hope and terrifying doubt, unable to believe that he should be alive, unable to believe that he should be dead.

"Sir?"

Ky turned from where he was standing close to the tent flap, listening to the buzz of voices and adjusting the small headset, ready to transmit to over a hundred IPF officers who would pass on his words. From his vantage point, he couldn't see the assembled masses, the tent placed right at the back of the stage, but he didn't really need to, the apprehension in the air like a physical thing, something he could have grabbed and weighed in his hand.

Jarre had ducked inside, his uniform the only fresh thing about him, looking at him with concern. "Are you all right, sir?"

"I should be the one asking that," Ky replied, motioning to the dark rings underneath his eyes. "You look like death warmed over."

"When this is done, maybe we can fall over together, sir," Jarre said brightly. "I just got word that they actually got Vaillant and the cardinal to come. I don't think they've got any idea who'll be speaking yet."

"This seems like a grave oversight on part of our communications department."

"Indeed, sir," Jarre said, his words offset by a tiny smirk. He leaned forward, glancing through the gap in the fabric. "Sure is a full house out there. I'd feel better if you'd give the go-ahead to fire up the generators."

"A shield means there's something to be afraid of, Major. It would only hurt our cause."

"I know, sir. I just don't like putting my miracles to the test." He cleared his throat. "Anyway, amplifiers should be ready to go, sir, and radio seems stable. Our people are standing by for your cue. The sun will fully hit the stage in about four minutes. I just came to let you know."

"Thank you." Turning away from the entrance, Ky began straightening his cuffs, the usual blue replaced by the gold-stitched white of the dress uniform. Just like everything else, the time of day and the placement in the shadow of the Arc, it was a deliberate choice, the color he preferred because of its plainness rendered symbolic by the occasion. Under different circumstances, the thought would have been unnerving. "To think, one day I'd join the pretend-play, myself."

"Well, sir," Jarre had moved aside, holding the flap open for him to pass, "since they're so eager to pronounce you dead..."

_...It's only fair to resurrect me in style._

* * *

A great silence descended once he stepped out on the stage.

It wasn't the kind of the silence he was used to from other speeches, born from the respectful restraint of the troops, or the eager expectation during a victory speech, but the silence born of thousands of voices faltering one after the other, until he could have dropped a pin and heard it fall. As far as he could see, not a single free space left — the entire Place de l'Etoile like a chalice filled to the brim, the people flowing out into the twelve avenues and from there into the side streets, standing packed on balconies, leaning out of the windows, even perched on the rooftops of nearby buildings.

Close to the stage were the ambassadors, flanked by a wall of officers, most of them already over the shock of meeting him again in person, several of their aides staring when they finally caught on. If Ky had had the mind to spare, he would have been scanning for the cardinal, but then his feet hit the edge of the stage, and all thoughts of vindictiveness fled with his next breath of air. This was it, the thing he'd hoped would never occur, the test to see if surviving the Crusades had changed anything, had made humanity any wiser. Closing his eyes briefly, he began.

"People of the free world... you have my thanks for assembling here today in such great numbers. I know that this must have been difficult; that the past few days have been a source of great unease to you. Much has happened, and yet, you have offered up your prayers as a source of strength to us, whose sworn duty is to protect you. Your kindness has touched me deeply, and I wish to thank you from the bottom of my heart.

"Undoubtedly, you have heard many things. Frightful things, worrisome things. You might have heard tales of destruction, tales of death and much bloodshed. You might have heard whispers that it was a ploy by Zepp, an attempt to shatter your spirit and your loyalty.

"I tell you it is not so. What has happened was not an act of malice, but an accident. I am here to tell you that I am unharmed, and that there is no need to be afraid, or angry. Yet I know that it is not easy to let go. Your hearts may have been swayed by talk of vengeance, by the voices that speak of Zepp as heretics, and say it is God's will that we put an end to their ways.

"I tell you God's will is in each and every one of us, and He has given us the power to take our lives into our own hands. What we decide to do, here and now, will change the future. I cannot tell you what to decide, but I can ask you to look around. Look at yourselves, and your families. The wife who is smiling at you, content to know that you will not have to leave her side. The husband who is only just beginning to learn how to wield anything other than a sword. The children at your feet, who may finally grow up without knowing pain and loss. I ask you to think of your homes, which you have built with your own hands, and what it is like to wake up, every day, knowing how hard you fought to earn everything you have."

He paused briefly, letting his eyes sweep over the sea of faces, men and women, young and old blurring together until it seemed like each face reflected everything, all ages and all stories.

"And now I ask you to imagine yourself casting it all away, one by one, for a sad and distant goal, a goal that will demand you bring suffering unto yourselves, and others like yourselves. I ask you to imagine taking up your swords and turning them upon your fellow man — someone you may not understand, someone who may be different from you, but not so different that he does not love, or weep, or bleed. Imagine taking from them their families, and their homes, and now ask yourselves... how such a cause can ever be right, or just, in the eyes of our Lord?"

A murmur ran through the audience, tremulous and uncertain, the first time any of them had been made to consider the talk of purification in such a light.

"I only know the path I must walk," Ky continued, this time more quietly, "and it is not this.

"I wish to walk a path of peace, a path on which we may meet our future and not falter, and be able to grasp happiness with both hands, without fear. What lies behind us is hardship and fighting. But what lies ahead of us is a world as brilliant and new as a young morning, unlike anything we have ever known. A world that extends beyond our small villages, rife with promise and wonder. I wish to take a path of learning, and discovery — the world is open to us, so that we may convene, and share our knowledge, and build a place where everyone may walk freely, a place untouched by strife and anguish.

"This is not something any one man can accomplish by himself. I cannot walk this path alone, for it is a path built on your courage, and your determination. Pray, do not squander this gift we have been given. Let us go forth, with a pure heart and a pure mind, and realize this new world, together!"

He always knew, even without looking, the moment of connection. The moment when uncertainty and indecision fell, like ships capsizing in a wave, a surge so strong he could feel it all over his body, and when he raised his fist towards the sky, it all burst forward, racing through the crowd in a thunderous cheer.

For just a few seconds, Ky allowed himself to slip, to take a small step away from his role and let himself be pulled along by the rousing applause, the sudden release of all that pent-up emotion a welcome cover for his own relief, the iron knot of tension in his chest uncoiling just a little. Slowly, he shifted his attention to the delegates, skimming over the enthusiastic clapping, a few smiles shared between the different entourages, Eisan giving a lopsided Order salute to ambassador Cylek, to pick out the faces of those he knew had every reason now to keep a close eye on the IPF.

Minister Vaillant was clapping along, his face a polite facade that betrayed nothing, but the cardinal was white as a sheet, his reactions as visible as his methods for anyone who bothered to look beyond his status. Neither of them more than a small part of a much more intricate puzzle, and that made it easier to know he couldn't bring them to justice — at the very least, they were two parts who had now shown their true colors, who could be watched and kept under some measure of control. As they would try to do to him.

A new round of cheers rose, and Ky dropped his gaze, turning back to the wider crowd to take in the pure joy on their faces, that simple, hopeful happiness. He could allow himself to experience this, for a little while, untainted by the certainty that he would need to do something, and soon.

* * *

Four floors up was the boundary line. Anything above, and the activities on the ground became a blur, small, multicolored dots darting back and forth, converging, separating, and it was hard to think of them as people sometimes, with their faces so far away. Anything below, though, and she would have been a part of it, not a spectator but one with the crowd, would have been with those on the balconies or getting shoved around in the streets. Close enough to make out the individual faces, to read anxiety or joy or amazement in their features and wonder about the stories behind them, former soldiers celebrating the return of their undisputed leader, people who owed their lives and livelihood to him, or pilgrims coming face to face with the object of their worship. Four floors up was where it all started to lose focus, where the people began to blend into each other, raised arms and flags and voices becoming mere extensions of a single entity, rolling back and forth like the sea.

Lara had grown up observing people from on high, gazing out the windows of her tower-home whenever idleness allowed, and they had seemed to her like ants, scrambling and scurrying every which way. Crowds only gathered on open market days, when all the vendors in a street would take their goods outside and start shouting their offers, and then, she'd rarely had enough time to watch, busy in the storeroom and moving goods at her father's behest. Zepp's unity was one of hard work and diligence, the knowledge that the way to unlock the gates to the past was if each of them did their part, but beyond that, it was impersonal voices ringing from the pole-mounted speakers at every corner, metallic echoes proclaiming sacrifice and far-off glories. The pride the people took in their military was the same they took in a well-oiled machine, swapping parts and fixing damage, so that everything might be kept running smoothly.

This was different, an intensity that no single person should have been able to command, and four floors up, she was still close enough to feel the emotions rise to lap at her feet — not meant for her, thankfully not meant for her. She was starting to think that nobody who wasn't religious could understand, and nobody who hadn't grown up in this age, and perhaps not even that was enough. Perhaps the people in the streets understood as little as she did, but had been raised not to question, to simply turn all their love over to something forever beyond logic and comprehension.

At the center of the plaza, the flash of brightness moved, Ky Kiske climbing off the podium and straight into the cheering crowd, white cloak turned radiant by the midday sun. This far away, Lara could have been left to wonder whether it was even him and not just an elaborate ruse, an actor or double tasked with keeping the world together. Instead, she found herself clutching the hope that it wasn't, that the impossible had truly happened — and wasn't that how tales of saints and ghosts began, seeing something, and then seeing it again, all the while knowing that it shouldn't have been there at all?

"I didn't know you found rousing speeches this interesting."

The mocking lilt pulled her back into the here and now, away from where she had been leaning over the balustrade of the hotel balcony, seeking to catch a glimpse, to ascertain, waiting with bated breath for the call to arms that never came.

_Or trying to see if you can ease your conscience somewhat. After all, these things are so interchangeable._

In the door frame, Meirth raised a porcelain cup in salutation, looking for all the world like a tourist who had wandered in by accident, entirely unconcerned with the events unfolding in the plaza below. If it was all for show, she had yet to see him trip up, to show some sign of his true intentions, but at the same time, the thought that he didn't care, that stirring the milk into his tea was truly the most important thing, wasn't something Lara was particularly keen on contemplating. She had spent most of her time avoiding him as much as she could, unwilling to have the inevitable confrontation while she was still reeling, unable to put on any airs and unable to pick out all the questions that had been pricking at the back of her mind like a swarm of furious insects. Now was no better, but he'd never been inclined to leave people any space to breathe.

"Was there something you wanted?"

She wasn't really working to keep the hostility out of her tone, but it did little to deter him.

"Just concerned for your health. I hear you haven't been eating well." Meirth motioned to the coffee table where her lunch sat, still mostly untouched, and she shoved away the hot rush of embarrassment at her own lack of foresight. Of course he would notice, and go out of his way to mention it. "Though I suppose I can't blame you for foregoing lunch when there is this much excitement going on."

Her eyes narrowed. "Excitement?"

"He certainly is a most fascinating man, wouldn't you say?" Meirth said, stepping outside to join her at the railing. "Holding the adoration of ten thousands in the palm of his hand, yet he steadfastly refuses to seize what could be his. You could build an empire on that kind of devotion, but here he stands, begging for support."

"What are you talking about."

"I've spent a considerable amount of time trying to understand it, but I must confess, the answer keeps eluding me. Every time I think I might predict... but no." He raised his cup for a sip, brow furrowing. "It's really a shame our instruments were destroyed. A most clever move, that. There is so much we would have been able to learn from the data."

"You... you really don't care, do you," Lara said softly, something in her tightening at the look she received in return, just a sideways glance as if she had made an off-hand comment on the weather that he hadn't quite caught. "We almost _killed_... and you... all you can think of is your precious data?"

"And what sense would there be in bemoaning something that isn't lost?"

"Something that isn't— are you blind? They hate us! They've always hated us, and even if they didn't, they would, now!" In a corner of her mind, Lara realized that she was yelling, advancing on him with her fists clenched and failing, still failing to impress in any way. Losing her temper wouldn't accomplish anything, but such rationale was lost in the face of the vision that had come to haunt her dreams at night: Zepp, in flames and heeling, whole sections of the city caving in like they were made of cardboard, and then, that last moment before the floatation ring shattered, sending everything plummeting towards Earth. All thoughts of superiority gone, all the teachings of the might of Zepp — one little island against the world, a world suffused by a love so powerful that it would give everything, down to its last man, if the one it loved said fire.

"What I want to know, more than anything, is why! Why did any of this have to happen? What if— by the sky, what if they'd gotten free?"

Incredible, how every time she thought she'd imagined the most horrifying thing, another idea would readily leap up to dethrone it. The world's savior dead, the world's leaders dead, a city of innocent civilians dead... and what was to say this wasn't how it had been meant to go?

Lara inhaled sharply, hunching forward against the force of the thought.

What was to say that this wasn't how it had been meant to go, a fatal strike against a despised enemy? Who was she to keep accusing the ground dwellers in the face of their plea for peace, when it had been her who had built this doomsday machine, and people from her country who must have financed it, and decided to— she didn't even know who had decided to send them here. All this time she had thought it unnecessary to ask questions, a distraction at best, an endangerment of her opportunities at worst, ignoring one of the most fundamental rules of the trade.

Always know who you're working for, so they can't screw you over.

When had she become such a fool?

_Or perhaps you always were, and just never stopped._

"If you are quite finished, Lara..." Meirth was still watching the proceedings at the plaza, where the crowd was beginning to part, the words murmured against the rim of his cup, "...I would appreciate it if you could go and pick up what rightfully belongs to us. I doubt we will be staying here for much longer, now that that's cleared up."

"Don't worry," she said, a little surprised at the steel in her own voice. "I was planning on going, regardless."

"Excellent. For your own safety, I suggest GC-578 accompany you."

_To supervise me, you mean,_ Lara thought, but only said, "Fine."

She couldn't have refused even if she'd wanted to, but it didn't matter. The slave soldier might have been Meirth's personal bodyguard, but he couldn't report what he didn't know about. The robots had been designed to work as a group, to fall back on and support each other under heavy fire, but they shouldn't have been able to authorize protocols on their own. Even if one of them had managed to, the others shouldn't have been able to follow suit, and the more she thought about it, the less she liked how her fail-safe system might as well not have existed. All she needed was for one of the black boxes to have survived the explosion, and then she could start puzzling out what had gone wrong, what could have been made to go wrong.

Something small and hard was forming deep down inside her, a snarl of doubt and questions she had never considered before, or never dared to contemplate, questions about good and evil and who it was that benefited the most from any step taken. Another thing she had forgotten while pursuing her own dreams — Zepp might imagine, but Zepp never imagined without profit, and money was only its most obvious form. As long as she held onto that snarl, Lara felt she could be angry, forge that fury into a new armor instead of getting cut up by the splinters of the old one, the part of herself that was scared and ashamed and forever six years old.

In the door, she turned to look back.

"Do tell him to plan in for a detour. You might not feel like expressing your condolences, but I do."

* * *

The IPF blacktech labs were a far cry from the kind the Order possessed, an entire complex built for evaluation and disposal of suspicious mechanisms. Ky had only been there a handful of times, had seen the shelves full of reports and catalogues, the long rows of tables with detection equipment spread out, the groups of mages and technicians probing at anything from trinkets the size of a thumbnail to a block of pipes and wires the size of several men, determined to discover whether they had been created with the knowledge of the heretics.

Even then, Ky had known it wasn't that simple, aware that he was standing on top of several floors' worth of vaults, and that for every artifact destroyed, there were a handful that vanished, quietly and unceremoniously, into that maze of storage that harbored the Order's greatest treasures. What he hadn't known was how close he had come on those visits to the very thing that would eventually be stolen under the cover of a firestorm, the sleeping counterpart to the sword that never once left his side.

Outwardly, the IPF branch looked almost identical, a smaller version tucked into the west wing of the Palais — the same rows of tables, the same filing system, and, for the most part, the same people, the Order's migrating staff snatching up whatever they could and bringing it along to their new job as a last 'up yours' to their old employer. Being interested in blacktech beyond the Holy Mission was a vice, and one that wasn't taken particularly lightly, though if faced with the choice of renouncing their wicked ways or accepting punishment, most of the enthusiasts would rather pack up and leave for Zepp than sit around and wait for the inquisition to come knocking. And if there was one thing Ky had never been keen on, it was wasting skills and useful resources for the sake of a questionable morality.

Once inside, the air of respectability vanished almost completely, swept up by the kind of atmosphere that only existed in a place of discovery. It was the beehive fervor of building and rebuilding, and sometimes, Ky went out of his way to listen to the status reports, delivered with breathless rapture by a gaggle of blacktech researchers, some former engineers, others scientists, each with a wide-eyed little protégé dogging after them wherever they went.

The other reason to visit, of course, were the accidents.

No other branch had its own team of water mages on permanent standby, and no other branch was quite as proud about requiring their services in the first place. By the time the lights in the tract stopped flickering, the windows to the blacktech labs had already been thrown open, the smell of melting wire left to roll out into the corridor and the surrounding gardens. In the door frame, Ky stopped, squinting against the smoke, and decided that the laconic cursing meant it was just a Tuesday kind of setback.

"You melted the head!"

"I swear that thing's possessed."

"You _melted_ the head."

"Someone get an ice mage who's been to confession, we need holy water."

Around one of the long lab tables, a team of junior researchers was chattering away, elbowing each other and pointing at the remains of whatever it was that the object had once been. Ky only recognized one or two of them from seeing their goggled faces peek out behind their instructors' backs; most of the others had to be just a few weeks off the streets, in the phase where cheeky irreverence was starting to win out over their awed staring in the face of forbidden technology. Most of them were like that, orphans and simple farmer's kids, each with too bright a mind and too curious fingers to make it for long in the outside world.

"What the devil is going on here?"

At the bark, the giggles abated, the boys wincing as their leader came bearing down on them in a wild-bearded, chainsmoking fury. Like so many others, Raich was someone Ky had come to know during the war, an ex-airship engineer who had the same respect for his machines and the elements they braved as the ship builders of old had for the enormousness of the ocean. He turned on the group, his voice booming loud enough so that the rest of the lab could hear every word.

"So glad you think this is hilarious. Perhaps you'd like to visit the lieutenant and tell him you think it's bloody funny that this thing turned him into shashlik, hm?" He looked around. "Well, do you?"

"N-no, sir," one of the juniors squeaked, a boy hardly tall enough to properly fit into his coveralls.

"Then I want to see some damn professionalism in here, we don't have much time left. Go cool off those hot heads of yours, and when you get back, I want to hear some sensible suggestions. And be grateful if I don't put that in your file."

They fled. With a huff, Raich turned to put the array of half-destroyed electronics spread across the table into some semblance of order, muttering choice words under his breath all the while.

"Don't be too hard on them, Chief," Ky said, moving closer to inspect the damage. Whatever remained of the robots had been carted off to the blacktech labs for study, in hopes of finding out how they had been built, and how they might be stopped in the case of future incidents. The leftovers weren't much, blackened pieces of metal all that remained of the eight at the FIRC testing ground, but if there was anything the people in the blacktech labs were good at, it was deciphering the pieces of the puzzle whose entirety had been lost nearly two-hundred years ago.

"Sir! When did you—?" The chief turned, his surprise quickly buried underneath a frown. "I'm sorry you had to see that, sir."

"Please, don't worry about it. I admit, after all that's happened, I'm kind of glad to see someone deriving a bit of laughter from the situation."

"With all due respect, sir," Raich lifted what remained of one of the heads, a convex plate with a few blocks of electronics still attached to it, glaring when he pulled the plug of the magic converter it had been attached to, "but I'll put the fear of God in them before they start thinking of this as a game. Last thing I want is any of these kids be the next one to build a death machine because they don't know any damn responsibility." He looked up, and flushed. "Not that I mean to, uh, lecture you or anything, sir."

Ky shook his head, smiling. "Your perspective is appreciated. I will keep your words in mind, Chief."

With a low hum, Raich returned his attention to the piles of cables and scrap metal. "Well, then, sir... if it's officially an accident now, I'm guessing that'll be the end of the line for us?"

"I'm afraid so. With everyone so trigger-happy, sending the people of Zepp home is simply the least dangerous course of action. I suppose they will send someone to pick up the evidence soon, and when they do, I want you to hand over everything, just to avoid further accusations."

"Of course, sir." Raich nodded. "I had my people prepare records of everything we got, just in case. Won't be as good as the real thing, of course, but we still might learn something in time."

"Good thinking. Is there anything you can tell me now, before we lose them?"

"Actually, sir?" The chief sighed, thumbing through his tool belt for a watchmaker's eye loupe and handing it to Ky. "I wish I could. I've never seen anything like it in my life. We don't know how it works, or what powers it, or even how it's put together. If we didn't have a couple hundred people swearing on their lives that these things were tearing through Gears like nothing, I'd chalk it up to someone having too much of a good time in the beer tent."

He picked up one of the square units, blocks as large as a human palm with blunt needle tips protruding from the surface, and passed it to Ky for inspection.

"These little things—" he tapped the needles "—just plain don't seem to do anything. They sure as hell aren't used to keep the parts together. And if you'll look closely, you'll see a bunch of patterns, sir, but... no clue if that means anything, either. For all I know, painting them is in fashion this season."

The patterns were large enough to be visible to the naked eye, but once he peered through the magnifier, Ky could see them in detail, long, straight lines of a light golden sheen, divided into even smaller lines, crisscrossing, running together and separating again in a seemingly arbitrary fashion. Every once in a while, they veered off to the nubs on the surface, only to emerge again on the other side, other times ignoring the bumps and obstacles altogether.

_This is..._

A cave, and darkness, a small flame as the only light to work by.

Wings, and claws, red eyes gleaming with suspicion, and in his hands, a casket of secrets, burning as hotly as all the questions he wanted to ask.

_I know this._

The units he'd held within the grasp of those twig-like instruments had been much smaller, barely the size of a finger, and much more intricate, covered in those tiny lines like a well-trodden landscape, and he had felt with every fiber of his being the flow of immense energy — back to front and front to back, and it had seemed impossible, hadn't it, that something so fragile should be capable of such an impossible feat... a flick of a switch turning Gear into human, and human into Gear.

"...power lines."

"—could probably say more if we had a... sir?"

"They're power lines."

Ky leaned back, removing the loupe to stare at the unit in its entirety, ignoring Raich's dumbstruck gaze.

"Sir, how do you—"

"I've seen something like this before, I think... a long time ago." He bit his lip. "I don't know how it works, precisely, but these lines are inlays, meant to funnel energy. If enough of these pieces are connected..."

_Gear to human, and human into Gear._

"...there is no telling what they might be made to accomplish."

Pulling back the plate, Raich peered at it skeptically, trying to understand, and imagine. "Sir, that's... by God, even if that's true... that's impossible. Just plain impossible."

"Chief?"

"I've spent my life poking through stuff we seized from Zepp. Airship parts, power cells, you name it. I know there's no telling what the little buggers might cook up next, but I can say one thing for sure, sir." He looked up, meeting Ky's eyes. "This thing's unlike anything I've ever seen. Unless they have a goddamn da Vinci up there, it shouldn't be able to exist at all."

"Yes," Ky agreed solemnly. "There is that."

* * *

The sketch was drawn on a sheet of graph paper, the smudged pencil lines waiting to be cleaned and inked. Up to size, it was a perfect two-dimensional replica of the plate from the lab, detailing the small nubs and coils on its surface, the tangle of ley lines.

For the past half hour, it had kept drawing Ky's gaze, quietly and inescapably, until he had given in, set aside the correspondence on his desk and had taken to staring at it, as if the object could be persuaded to give up its secrets through willpower alone. Next to it lay the latest tally of bounties, already two weeks old, and in the flood of anonymous claims, none bore the tell-tale signature: a large, mean Gear and copious amounts of collateral damage. The last lead was from three months ago, down near the coast of Dalmatia, but even if it had been fresh, submitted just the other day, he knew that by the time he got there, he'd be lucky to even get close enough to catch a middle finger to his face.

_Not for lack of trying._

Little to show for it, except a couple of bruised ribs and a bit of damaged pride, the dead certainty that he was being blocked from something at all costs, some kind of secret he wasn't supposed to know. Was this part of it, then? This piece of forbidden technology, so sophisticated, so similar that he was sure he could have matched the design from his memory to the one right in front of him with barely a difference — with anyone else, Ky would have assumed they had been careless, that parts of the device had been stolen or sold, but not Sol. Not Sol, who refused to loosen the straps even an inch to let him take care of a head wound.

A relic, then, a leftover from the old world, the key to making powerful devices that fit into a hand, or that could move and think on their own. But if that was it, if someone had simply dug up it and brought it back...

_...How many years did Kahren say went into that project? This thing should have revolutionized their warfare._

What reason would there have been to keep it a secret? What reason was there ever to keep something like this a secret?

_/A holy relic, blessed by the hand of the Lord, we shall grant it thee to carry out His will.../_

The Furaiken, which they hadn't handed over until there had been no other choice, until it landed right in his lap, until its magic yielded and changed so completely as to be an extension of his own. There was little doubt the Order would have kept it hidden forever, for a purpose only they knew, if they'd thought they could. If anyone in Zepp had specifically kept back an invention that could have saved hundreds, if not thousands of lives, only to give it away for such a cause, then far more was resting on this almost-crisis than its pawns were aware of.

"Sir?"

Ky looked up from his study of the sketch to notice Bernard's peering through the crack in the door. Judging by his reluctance, he had probably been knocking for quite some time before deciding that whatever errand had brought him here was important enough to do what Ky had been asking him in vain to do for the past five years, and just come in. Shaking his head fondly, Ky rose from his desk and gestured for him to come in, glad for the distraction.

"Bernard. Is something the matter?"

"I'm sorry to bother you, sir." The elderly soldier slipped inside, holding out a tray with a pot of tea and pastry as if to excuse his presence. "I'd have come by another time, but... Doctor Perrine bade me see to it that you make a full recovery."

He placed the tray down on the sideboard, handing Ky a glass with the same unappetizing medicine from the hospital.

"She was quite... uh, concerned that you might miss your treatments, sir." Bernard coughed, his meaningful pause enough to indicate that the doctor hadn't phrased it quite so gallantly.

While Ky was busy with the bitter brew, he set about preparing the tea with the air of a professional butler, wiping the cup and dabbing at the spout when it looked like it might spill. The attempt normally would have garnered no small amount of protest, the idea of other people waiting on him a notion that had always rubbed Ky the wrong way, but if there was anything he'd learned over the course of the past two days, it was that being allowed to fuss was a kind of catharsis, some small way for people to reaffirm that their world hadn't strayed too far from its intended course.

It was the reason he left Bernard to his self-appointed task, instead moving to inspect the congregation of cupcakes, their top half nearly disappearing under a tip of whipped cream. Unable to help himself, he picked off one of the strawberry slices, and popped it in his mouth. "And I suppose Doctor Perrine also sends these."

"Um, that would be Miss Eloise and a half dozen officers fretting about you skipping meals, sir." He didn't add 'and myself', but it came across anyway.

"Please give them my thanks, then." Another slice, its sweetness chasing away the taste of the medicine. "I didn't mean to cause any undue worry."

"Think nothing of it, sir." Bernard pushed the cup towards him, trying hard not to look like he was trying to study Ky's face, searching for signs of fatigue or fever. "I... sir? May I speak freely?"

"Of course, always."

"I, well. I know it's not my place to pry, but... if there is anything on your mind... I know I'm not Sir Undersen or... " he hesitated, lips pulling into a frown, "but... I'll gladly give whatever counsel I can, sir."

Ky blinked, taken aback. "If this is about just now, I was only lost in thought."

"No, sir, not just now. I've been thinking for a long time," Bernard shrugged, searching for the right words. "It just seems like there's so much resting on you, and... you do know, don't you... it doesn't have to be."

"I do." Ky reached out, clasping the Bernard's hand, as much in reassurance as in gratitude. There was no other way to react to this much devotion than to accept and embrace it, treasure it, and seek to calm it as much as he could. He smiled, squeezing that old, calloused hand that had never known anything other than service. "I do know that, Bernard. And I thank you. Since you asked, I won't tell you that it's nothing. For now, though, I'll have to ask that I may try your patience a little while longer."

Bernard shook his head. "There's nothing to try here, sir, I—"

"Commander?"

The new voice was accompanied by a rapid knock on the door, a rather breathless guard sticking her head in. "I'm very sorry, sir, but they're here. That... woman has been asking for you, sir."

"Doctor Kahren?"

"Yes, sir. We thought it best to keep her waiting at the gate. She's got a man with her, very tall, looks like he could cause trouble. Should I notify back-up, sir?"

"No, thank you, Sergeant Major. That won't be necessary. I'll attend to them, myself."

"Sir!"

Once she had withdrawn, Bernard shifted uneasily. "Are you sure that's wise, sir?"

"In front of a police station? I think I'll be safe," Ky said, flashing him a lopsided smile. "This shouldn't take too long."

"So you keep saying, sir," Bernard sighed, casting a mournful glance at the scarcely touched breakfast, lunch, and probably dinner.

Reaching for his coat, Ky turned to go. "Don't worry. I wouldn't miss out on those cupcakes for the world."

* * *

The flowers were wilting.

Gingerly, Lara shifted them on her arm, a bouquet of tiny white buds wrapped in silk paper, and noticed that the patch where they had been resting was coming away a damp pink, the moisture from their stems seeping through the colored paper and staining her sleeve. Bethlehem, the girl had said as she'd lifted them from their vase, carefully tucking them into shape, Star-of-Bethlehem, and Lara didn't know what the word meant, but they'd certainly looked like little stars, luminous in the gloom of the shop.

Regret and reconciliation, the girl had explained as she tied them with a ribbon, and Lara had wanted to laugh, for the second time that day wondering about things that weren't supposed to be there, drawing her eye to this delicate flower and its gentle scent. Not many flowers grew in Zepp, high up among the cutting winds; if somebody happened to have a patch of earth, it was used for vegetables or a bunch of chickens, but sometimes, you could find an interloper or two growing on vertical stone walls and chimney exits, tenacious little weeds clinging to life in the margins. The adults didn't like them, claimed their roots would ruin the walls, but they were prizes among the children, sun coins and moon coins to be traded for sweets or marbles. Offering flowers as a gift was a fancy of the ground people, and inventing a language for them an even bigger idiosyncrasy, but as she left the shop with regret and reconciliation perched close to her chest, it didn't seem like such a bad idea, letting something else stand in for words and all their deceitful inadequacy.

Here, with the flowers beginning to shed their petals in the afternoon warmth, the idea once again felt ridiculous — her, a stranger, fumbling her way through an alien custom, offering up something so plain in comparison to all the flowers drifting across the surface of that pond, vibrant and heavy with the sentiment with which they had been bedded there.

The guards certainly seemed to think so; bound as they were by duty, they could still regard her with suspicion and contempt, and wasn't it amazing, how much it suddenly mattered? In comparison to her, the giant — Potemkin, Lara tried to remind herself, though he'd never offered his chosen name to anyone but Sir Kiske at the banquet — appeared more at ease than she'd ever seen him anywhere, studying his surroundings and exchanging curt nods with the officers with the courtesy she'd seen most military men extend to one another, a silent acknowledgement of their common ground. Funny, that it could make her wonder now, when she'd previously hardly seen him as alive, never speaking, never doing anything but bowing and obeying as Meirth's personal lap dog. There was something different about him that had grown with every step they'd taken towards the police building, until the perpetual slump was gone from his shoulders and he was moving to look around, alert and perceptive in ways that didn't fit this unwieldy, bumbling shadow she had come to know.

_I don't see why you're so surprised, when you never bothered. Lie down with dogs, get up with fleas, as they say._

"Doctor."

The greeting made her jump, Ky Kiske stepping out of the Palais entrance with all the calm and good grace of someone receiving a guest instead of his own would-be murderer. Looking at him, the past week might as well have been a dream, no scars, no bandages, the only hint that anything was amiss the slight pallor to his skin that might as well have been due to the strain of the morning's address.

"Sir Potemkin." That nod again, and out of the corner of her eye, she could see the bodyguard straightening just that extra a bit more as he returned it.

"I would propose we go inside, but I thought you might prefer your visit to remain informal?"

Impossible to tell whether he was being sarcastic, his tone so polite and friendly that it was as if nothing had happened at all, as if they'd just met for the first time and he was going to comment on the lovely weather next, suggest they go for a stroll. He didn't, just signaling the guards to withdraw and looking at her expectantly. It took Lara a moment to realize that he was honestly expecting an answer.

"I, no. I mean, yes." She bit her tongue to keep herself from babbling nonsense, once again floundering for balance in the face of that absolute lack of rancor. "Yes, I would prefer that."

"Then..."

"Captain, I—" No words, no words that were sufficient enough for an apology, nothing but the artlessness of her own upbringing, where 'pardon' and 'sorry' were phrases to be shouted across the street and waved off with the casual flick of a hand, the language itself lacking any kind of grandiloquence, and she found herself wishing that she'd paid a little bit more attention to the rituals of the other world, so that she might know how to express regret without the implicit expectation of forgiveness.

"It's... it's odd. I thought about all the things I was going to say before I came here, and now I can't remember a thing." The paper crinkled in her hands, and she noticed that she was clutching her load too tightly, crushing the fragile buds. "I... I know I don't have the right to ask anything of you. But I swear on my life that this wasn't supposed to happen. It won't make anything undone, but I want you to know that won't rest until I know why. I'm afraid there's nothing else I can offer. Well... there's this."

The motion brought on a new shower of petals, the weakened bouquet not appreciating getting thrust at someone, and Lara realized she hadn't even managed to look the captain in the eye, fixing on the flowers in the fool hope that they would accomplish what she had failed to do. Then, they were lifted from her hands, and her gaze was forced to go with them, away from herself, up and past that convenient, indefinite point over another person's shoulder.

Captain Kiske was smiling. "You picked these?"

"...It seemed like a good idea at the time," she said, resisting the urge to shrug and demean the moment any more than she already had, the gesture of a sullen child.

"Hope."

"Pardon?"

"In the language of flowers, the star of Bethlehem equates to hope." He huffed quietly as if at some private joke, and Lara found herself wondering whether it was possible to get bruises from bouncing between what should happen and what actually did, amusement the very last thing she had expected.

"I was told they stand for atonement," she ventured awkwardly, and forcefully stopped her left hand before it could start tugging at her hair again.

"Is that so?" He stepped towards the edge of the pond, crouching down. "Perhaps they don't mean anything, and it's just about what either of us feels they should be."

With a little flourish, the paper and bow came off, the entire bouquet unraveling, and with the next gust of wind, they were set adrift, white-studded sprigs spiraling towards their more dignified counterparts. All but a handful of them gone, the captain rose again, retying the ribbon and turning to face her.

"I appreciate your sincerity," he said, his expression growing serious. "And I don't doubt that you will do as you say. But your sincerity is why I must warn you."

"Warn me?"

"Surely your scrutiny doesn't extend only to your own abilities."

Lara frowned, at once aware of what he was implying, and felt the welling of the pride that had been with her all her life, anger against an outsider's judgment of her homeland.

"I don't mean to voice baseless accusations," Sir Kiske continued, "but I believe the past days have made clear that there are a number of parties interested in seeing both of our countries go to war. If you insist on proving your integrity, I fear your life might be in danger."

"You..." She hesitated. A part of her wanted to outright refute the concerns — it was her work, she was valuable, she had the support of her entire team, and did he really think this was how Zepp did business? — but the words wouldn't come. Her team was made up of loners and tinkerers, disconnected from the rest of society, just as underinformed as her... and Meirth had the blueprints. She rubbed at her arms, trying to ward off the sudden chill. "What would you have me do, then?"

"There is little I can do for you, should you return home. However, if you stay here, the IPF can protect you, even if you don't wish to share information. You would be given a new identity and could settle in a place of your choosing, start a new life in any way you see fit. You, and any of your team who wish to remain."

"That's..." For a moment, the offer was tempting. The idea had something going for it; a clean slate, running away from the realization that all this time, she had been digging her own grave, trusting the wrong people, smothering her instincts, not smart enough to arrange for an exit strategy. Going somewhere, and living out her life in peace. And then, the childish fantasy of fleeing her responsibility toppled as she really tried to imagine it, walking through the streets of some small town in the middle of nowhere, working at a bakery, or a tailor, or a smithy, visiting the house of an entity she couldn't believe in, mouthing prayers in an attempt to fit in, surrounded by those whose lives were built on ignorance and superstition, until the day she died.

"Thank you for the generous offer, Sir Kiske," she said, shaking her head. "But... I can't do that. Zepp is my home. It's the place I belong, for better or worse. I can't just run away."

He nodded slowly. "I thought so, but I had to ask."

They stood in silence for a while, Captain Kiske gazing out at the flower carpet swaying on the water's surface, her taking in the cloudless day and the smell of warm grass and remembering Lacie, all dignified in her brass-buttoned uniform, kind and forgiving and aware, always more aware than her, where a choice would lead.

_Try harder... as long as you were there, I felt I could try harder, be a better person just for you._

From the gate up ahead, a shout rang out, Miren and Anis waving to her from a horse-drawn wagon laden with empty container boxes.

"I fear this is my cue," she murmured eventually. "Thank you for everything. Could you... could you tell Lieutenant Andreyev...?"

"Of course." Another nod, and if the captain was disappointed by the outcome, she couldn't hear it in his voice. "You will find the entrance to storage in the west building. My people will be waiting for you. Good luck, Doctor."

Closing her eyes, Lara steeled herself. The Zepp way to say goodbye would have been to offer her hand, and the ground way would have been to bow, but she found her head too full to decide on either.

"It really is a shame," she heard herself say instead, as she turned to go, "that I didn't meet you sooner, Captain. I feel some things might have turned out rather differently, if I had."

"They still might, Doctor." The look in his eyes nearly made her stumble, steady and startling in its earnestness, full of a conviction whose depths she couldn't fathom. "They still might."

* * *

"You're not going with them?"

Ky kept his eyes on Kahren's retreating figure, waiting for her bodyguard to come closer. Throughout the exchange, he had remained quiet, keeping a respectful distance, but Ky didn't doubt that he'd heard every word, wouldn't even have said anything if Kahren had chosen to betray her homeland. It should have been impossible for such a large man to become so thoroughly invisible, to simply blend against the scenery or the side of a building and remain unnoticed, but the doctor had obviously forgotten all about him in a matter of minutes, or she wouldn't have spoken so freely, the desire for closure stronger than her caution.

Ky had met people like this before, mostly in convents and monasteries, men and women who practiced humility and silence until they became one with the cloisters and the halls, fortresses in human form. A demeanor expected of a slave soldier, perhaps, but also the demeanor of someone who had long since grown used to using it to his advantage. He was quite certain that Potemkin's discomfort during the banquet had been real, reduced to a curiosity by his employer, but now, almost the opposite seemed to apply, the man using his own size as a way to deflect wariness and suspicion.

If he was surprised to find himself addressed, he didn't show it, stepping to Ky's side with little of the awkwardness that had characterized their introduction, allowing the calm to settle.

"...I would get in the way," he finally said, and in a flash, the self-consciousness was back, Potemkin examining his massive palms as if in apology. "I don't think I will be missed for a while yet." He lifted his head, surveying the gardens. "It's not often that a place has such a good air about it."

"It is a good place to be, I think," Ky said, brushing a finger along the petals.

"Hard work, and a vision for the future." Potemkin was nodding to himself, as if satisfied with his observation. "It reminds me of a place I left behind."

"In your hometown?"

"An interrogation, Commander?" he asked, raising an eyebrow, and Ky shook his head.

"When I said I wished we would find the time to talk... this wish hasn't changed."

Potemkin hummed. "You have a way of making people say more than they mean to, Commander. There is nothing as disarming as an open ear."

"I suppose I do," Ky said, smiling a little.

Silence was his only reply, Potemkin rubbing at his knuckles in the way a fighter would often touch his sword arm in moments of conflict, the beginnings of a frown lining his forehead. The bout of joviality was fleeing fast, and though Ky would have preferred it if the other man had started talking on his own, if he didn't press on now, the moment of connection was going to disappear as quickly as it happened.

"How about we put our cards on the table, then, Sir Potemkin?" he suggested. "You didn't stay behind just to admire the scenery, did you."

More silence, but Potemkin was listening.

"I admit it took me a little bit to put two and two together. There was this feeling that I knew you, even though we hadn't met. And then I remembered... the hunt for subject G-736, the alleged lost Command Gear. Someone of a description similar to yours left quite an impression in a few places. This is, admittedly, mere conjecture on my part — and do forgive me, but I seldom believe in such coincidences."

"...You are a very resourceful man."

"One must be, I fear, in a world such as ours. As are you, I might add. For an ordinary bounty hunter to have access to a government blacklist is quite something."

The deep rumble came as a surprise, a sound like rock shaken loose from a hillside, and though Potemkin's face betrayed very little, Ky realized he was chuckling, his chest shaking with a tightly controlled mirth. "Indeed, Commander, indeed. It seems few things manage to escape your notice. ...Very well. Though I have been ordered not to speak of this to anyone, for the sake of my country, I now feel I must."

Heaving a great sigh, he returned his attention to the water, squeezing his knuckles again. "I unofficially stand in the service of President Gabriel, head of the ruling house of Zepp. I don't know how much has managed to penetrate to the outside, but suffice it to say, our unity is waning. There is a lot of disagreement on the course Zepp should take in the future, and the council of houses has long since fallen into disarray."

"Not so different from the way things are here," Ky agreed, but it was more an expression of his empathy than anything else. Although it was easy to picture Zepp suffering from the same changes as most of the world, the same loss of direction and fragmentation, it was but one city miles above the ground, enclosed, bound by its traditions with no way to share its plight, no way to draw strength from the fact that there were millions of other people trying to rediscover a way to live, other leaders to meet with, new bonds to form. No one in Europe had ever been alone, truly and utterly alone, and he had seen that realization dawn on Kahren's face when she refused the offer, the sudden awareness of her own isolation. In a way, Zepp was like a pot, sealed tight and left to sit over a fire, with no way out except for the pot to explode or the contents to burn.

From the look Potemkin gave him, it seemed he understood, as well.

"My president has received a lot of criticism for his forward-thinking ways. He proposes that we begin to seek out the outside world, that we trade and learn to coexist. I was... happy to learn that your world yields some leaders that might share his vision." A fleeting smile. "Yet there are those who call this treason, and propose we take by force what has been denied to us. The manufacturing and mining barons that grew rich on war are dissatisfied with the president's decision to direct our efforts elsewhere. Zepp is full of businessmen of ill repute striking deals behind closed doors, and the council has given them the means to such secrecy. Money is disappearing, and we don't know where to. And what keeps appearing in its place... are things like those robots."

"A coup in the making."

"So the president fears. He is growing old, and his position is worsening. His son is a fierce defender of his father's policies, but his youth stands against him." Potemkin shrugged his shoulders, the movement as heavy as the shifting of a mountain. "If the house of Gabriel were to fall... there is no telling what may rise in its place."

Ky nodded gravely, but found there was little to say that would actually assuage him, ease the distress that would have led someone like this man to break his employer's confidence and speak to an outsider. The IPF was no army, and no political body, and no matter how much he might have wished for peace and a united world, he couldn't begin to start meddling in other countries' affairs, or there would be no stopping it. He had turned away pleas like this before, petitioners and high-ranking officials showing up incognito on his doorstep, asking for his support and guidance, or sometimes, less idealistically, just for his face on the posters for their campaign.

Every time, he had refused, knowing full well what would come out of positioning himself; not just in the short term, but farther into the future. The Order was proof enough, how quickly it had broken up without him at the helm, succumbing to all the things that had been long boiling beneath its surface — things that, even with all the power bestowed upon him, he'd never been able to influence, or even see in full. Allying and ruling, or, as some brazen tongues suggested, seceding and forming his own reign, was no way to help anybody — just a reminder for himself, a warning not to get involved.

On some level, it seemed Potemkin even knew that because he didn't ask anything further, didn't voice the damning request that Ky would have to refuse.

"Tell me something," he said, pulling out the folded sketch. "Have you ever seen something like this before?"

Potemkin stooped, his frown deepening as he studied the picture. "No. Is that...?"

"A part of the robots, yes. My engineers tell me they have never seen anything like this come out of Zepp."

"Unfortunately, the labs have always been too tightly guarded. In fact, I was about to give up on my investigation, when they decided on this side-trip." He stroked his chin. "However... Young Master Gabriel has also voiced suspicions to this effect. That the new weapons we're seeing may be the result of outside meddling."

Meddling that nearly killed a man, caused a mass panic, and sparked a new war. Refolding the drawing, Ky tilted his head back to properly look Potemkin in the eye. "What do you suppose your young master would say to receiving a visitor?"

The only indication of his surprise was a slight widening of his eyes, before he said contemplatively, "The young master is very hospitable. I'm sure he would be delighted, should a visitor find his way to him." Reaching into his pocket, he drew out a slim, white card, holding it pinched between his thumb and forefinger. "It would... open doors."

Slowly, Ky smiled.

* * *

He had known for a long time that it would come to this.

The world he was allowed to see and the world that was were two different things, separated by two centuries of lost history. Like an opaque window, with something from the outside looking in, watching the proceedings and occasionally thrusting it open, to alter events as it saw fit. It was all the inconsistencies he'd never been able to explain away, all the things that were called 'forbidden,' it was what had tried to seal Justice and what had stolen the life of Kliff's first son, leaving him forever changed. It was what would chase Dizzy until the ends of the Earth, and what had gotten a hold of Sol, somehow and sometime, turned him hostile and quiet, with a legacy only he knew.

_/Tell me, child... if you had to choose.../_

He could no longer count how often the words had come to him at night, chasing away any thought of sleep, even though he knew he wouldn't be able to find an answer. Justice had been willing to eradicate humanity just to get at whatever was out there, had understood the odds, the bigger picture, and decided that the only way to prevent something even worse from happening was to bathe the world in blood. Had believed, until her last breath, that it was the right thing to do.

_/If you had to choose... would you...?/_

He couldn't even say he knew it would be worth it. That pursuing the things beyond the veil would change everything for the better, wouldn't make everything even worse. The suffering of a few over the suffering of many. How many times had he been told it would be an acceptable loss? How many times had he argued against it, debated, pleaded, dodged and disobeyed not to see it happen? And weren't they the worst, who chose inaction, who staved off decisions behind pretty words, all in the name of neutrality?

_/...would you?/_

Rubbing the towel through his hair, he noticed it was still coming away slightly dark, the smell of walnut strong in the room. Over the edge of the desk, the police coat was resting, exchanged for a set of plain traveling clothes, along with the unmarked white card, a special clearance security key to the higher quarters of Zepp, where the rich had built their homes. A risky gamble, certainly, but the only way into Zepp was as a dissenter, the city permanently in need of new hands to keep things running. A former holy knight doing his best to fit into a city of heretics — Sol would have delighted in the thought, no doubt.

Bernard hadn't, neither had Jarre, and Miss Eloise would be upset with them for not stopping him, and him for leaving on another 'special mission,' but there was no way around it. No way to take a task force with him, to endanger even a single soldier when he didn't yet know for what, when there was no telling what they might run into. The world needed the IPF much more, needed able hands to hold the fort and make sensible decisions, and he knew that at the end of the day, they would all do as he asked, even if they were reluctant to let their captain go.

Ky lifted his head to observe his appearance in the mirror, a slight push of magic forcing the color of his irises towards a soft shade of green. It would have to do. All that was left, then, was to seek out the one who would worry the most, the sole person who would try to follow him against any orders he might leave behind.

* * *

Closer to morning, headquarters was nearly deserted, leaving only the night staff to perform their duties, silent and, except for a bright window here and there, mostly unseen. In the hospital wing, the lights were out, the only lamp glowing at the nurse's station. It made Ky feel like a thief, creeping about in the dead of the night without drawing attention to himself, but the fewer people saw him and wondered, the better. Bernard and Jarre would explain his absence to anyone who needed to know, and keep it under wraps from everyone who didn't, to prevent further tensions.

The lieutenant's room had changed very little; the marguerite had since been joined by a few more vases, spring flowers filling the air with their sweet scent. The window had been left ajar probably for just this reason, the curtains billowing in the warm evening air. The most obvious difference was the lack of wards, the heavy aura of the sleep spell gone along with two magic units, leaving Andreyev to rest naturally. He no longer looked quite so pale, the slackness of his features one of relaxation instead of utter exhaustion. Ky couldn't have said what woke him, whether it was the rustling as he placed the remaining stars-of-Bethlehem in the water, or whether it was the sound of his footsteps when he approached the bed, but by the time he came to stand next to the headboard, Andreyev was squinting up at him, eyes still cloudy with sleep.

"Lieutenant. Please, don't be alarmed."

"...Sir?" The word was more a groan than anything else, Andreyev shifting his arm to rub his eyes and wincing when his wound made itself known. "...are we... am I dead?"

"No," Ky said, and had to hold back the chuckle that wanted to escape him at the lieutenant's vaguely cross look. "No, I am glad to say that you are still very much alive."

"Oh. I jus' thought..." He waved his hand weakly in Ky's general direction.

"We're back at HQ. Try not to move too much, you're still healing."

"'K, sir."

"You took quite the beating out there. Do you remember what happened?"

"'S hard," Andreyev mumbled hoarsely, "t'forget the bastard who stabbed y'in the back, sir."

"Indeed, it is," Ky said, trying hard to rein in the amusement in his voice before the lieutenant could think he was being made fun of. "There's no reason to worry, though. It's all been taken care of."

"Y'mean... you took care of it, sir. 'm sorry. Wasn't... the plan." Andreyev heaved a sigh, which tapered off into a coughing fit as he tried to push himself into a more upright position.

"You've done more than enough, Lieutenant. Please, be careful." Letting his traveling bag slide to the floor, Ky reached for the cup of water on the nightstand, and held it for the lieutenant to take a few sips. If Andreyev had been even slightly more awake, he would have protested the move, determined to appear reliable and not allow himself to falter, but for the moment, he seemed to have resigned himself to the fact that it would still be a while before he could sit up straight again. "Don't strain yourself."

"Thanks, sir." Running his tongue over his chapped lips, Andreyev frowned up at him, shifting his head to the side as far as it would go. "What... what happened to you, sir? Your eyes, they're..."

"Just a little change." Ky set the cup down. "I've come because there's something I have to tell you, and... I wanted to apologize for being unable to keep my promise."

"Promise?"

"I said I'd chase you around the ring for that performance."

Maybe it was that he'd finally found just the right tone, or perhaps it was the fact that Andreyev was still only half awake, left without most of his self-consciousness, because he huffed out a laugh. "Let... let me get my sword, sir."

"We'll have to postpone the match until after I get back," Ky said, as much a way to make amends as to soften what he was about to demand, the weight of asking someone to take over his duties — not just for today or tomorrow, but an indefinite amount of time, wherever digging for the truth would lead him.

"You're... going somewhere?"

"A lot has happened. Bernard will give you the details once you're ready to resume active duty, but... I'll be leaving to conduct an investigation in Zepp. I can't yet say how long."

"Wait... you're going...?" Andreyev's eyes widened, a hawk-like sharpness lighting in their depths. "Who else?"

"I'm—"

"You're not... you're not taking anyone else, are you, sir?" Stubbornly, he planted his elbows against the mattress, making as if to get out of bed. "Are you?"

"Lieutenant, that's—"

"Sir, that thing— if it'd gotten you, and it was— someone was trying to _kill_ you, sir, you can't—"

"_Lieutenant._"

Andreyev froze, at once aware that he'd been raising his voice, straining against Ky's calming hand on his shoulder. A minute passed, Andreyev searching his face, before he sighed, the panic-fueled fire fizzling into nothingness. He sank back against the pillow, a shadow stealing across his features that Ky hadn't seen in all the years he'd known him, all the times they'd staggered out of a dirt pit on their very last reserves: Andreyev was looking defeated.

"I'm sorry, sir. I know it's not my place."

"No, that isn't it."

How to explain to someone so fiercely devoted the hundred good reasons why he had to go alone? How to reassure someone such as this?

"That isn't it at all. I don't want you to worry, and if there were another way, I wouldn't—"

"It's not..." Briefly, Andreyev closed his eyes, his hands clenching into fists. "Hell, sir, that's hardly the first time. You never— You're always looking out for us, but you don't really trust anyone to have your back, do you? I know I can't hope to— but we'd all follow you, whether we understand it or not. Everyone would. And yet... it's always just you. Like in the war. It shouldn't have to be just you."

"No, lieutenant. You've got it all wrong." Ky looked at him firmly. "I'm asking you to stay behind _because_ I trust you. _Because_ I need you to have my back, and do the hardest things. I need you to hold it all together while I'm gone, and it's only because I know you will that I can leave at all."

"Sir..."

"I wouldn't know who else to ask... Mikhail."

All he got in return was a stunned stare, Andreyev's jaw working for several seconds as if to chew out the words — and was he really so bad at expressing his appreciation, that it should be so surprising when he did?

"...That's not fair, sir," Andreyev muttered eventually, dropping his gaze. "You can't just say stuff like that."

Ky laughed a little, fondness and not a little relief coloring his tone. "You mean a simple order would have worked, too?"

"...probably not."

After a short silence, Ky picked up his bag again. It seemed almost wrong to leave now, not to let the moment pass naturally and savor that new understanding, but time was of the essence. Nothing to add to the goodbye, anyway, except encouragements that meant very little, when they both knew that Andreyev would do nothing if not his very best, always, to live up to whatever ludicrously impossible ideal he thought he should be holding himself to, for Ky's sake. Another thing he had never quite managed to make Andreyev believe, that there was no measuring pole to fall short of, no way to fail in doing whatever he could, and now, all that was left was for Andreyev to realize that himself.

Adjusting the straps, he placed a hand on Andreyev's closed fist, and squeezed. "I'll leave everything in your hands, then."

"...Sir?"

He was already halfway out the door when the question came floating towards him, and he turned to see Andreyev had managed to prop himself upright again, putting most of his weight on his good shoulder.

"I'll be holding you to that match, sir."

Ky smiled, lips very nearly pulling into a smirk, the expression twin to Andreyev's own. "I'll be looking forward to it."

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-TBC-

* * *

**A/N:** So, this was "the setup." Since FFN won't let me reply to anonymous comments, let me just take this moment to say that I do read all your reviews, and I'm happy to hear that you're enjoying this story so much.

Anyway, since it's probably overdue, a bunch of ramblings about small stuff:

- If I use my own headcanon, Zepp is stuck somewhere in the 1910-1930s, tech-wise?  
- Things I am liberally ignoring, among others, are the novels and scattered supplementary material. That means I'm taking a bit of a detour in most things Zepp, what it looks like, how it's run, and who's in charge and how. I always felt that "president" is just way too modern a concept in that world, so what president amounts to in Zepp is just a word they thought was cool and important and that they applied to the head of the ruling house (think steampunk Medici).  
- Lining up the events of X/X2 can be a bit of a clusterfuck. In terms of importance, I just can't imagine that it would be widely known that Dizzy's a Command Gear, or that she'd be put on a generic bounty list for any ol' Joe to pursue when it took 200 years and hundreds of thousands of people to bring down the _last_ Command Gear. I'll try to straighten this out over the course of _Imperfect Various Things_. *shot for self-plug*  
- IPF? It personally always bugged me that Ky, savior extraordinaire, defender of widows and orphans, rescuer of one-legged kittens, and guy whose foremost interest is seeing people happy, would think that what a world recovering from two centuries of global warfare needs most is a _police force_. Thus the IPF morphed into a sort of independent organization that does a lot of different things, including Gear extermination, mediation, historical research, and running building projects for schools and water reservoirs in battered areas. Ky wouldn't want to become politically tied down, anyway.


	14. Chapter 11

**Title:** Going off the Record**  
Part:** 11/?**  
Fandom:** Guilty Gear**  
Pairing:** Sol/Ky**  
Rating:** eventual R**  
Contains:** Alternate Timeline beginning around GGX, boom and stabbity. Now with 100% more end of the world.

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**Going off the Record**

_Chapter XI, Beginning_

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The sun rose gradually, as if unsure it was actually worth the effort. A crawl of light along the horizon, and on clear days, mornings like this when the city hung high and the clouds low, it looked more like the sun was surfacing, a fiery whale against the edge of the sky. The light changed once it hit the shield, its angle still low enough to actually render the dome visible to the naked eye, the magic refracting it until it looked like the air was full of gold dust, every speck of soot and vapor contributing to its fleeting shimmer.

An illusion, but a rather attractive one, easily one of the most beautiful sights to behold, restoring to Zepp a hint of the mystique from all the childhood bedtime tales, a sheen of glory for the stalwart bastion of knowledge, the last frontier against the ignorance of the world. Miles above the ground, and hundreds of feet above the lower tiers, it was easy to let the impression linger, a delicate lady's veil to conceal a face that was growing old and ugly by the day, sagging cheeks, and wrinkles like trenches, warts bulging from the papery skin tasked with holding it all together, lending some kind of structural integrity to the decay.

Slowly, Aren Gabriel turned away from the mirage of gold, and concentrated on shrugging out of his dirty coveralls. The change from bright to dark momentarily rendering him blind, he fumbled with the breeches, some of the residue oil leaving its mark on the waistband. It didn't matter, he decided, stuffing the workman's clothes into a garbage bin, and made a point to leave his cufflinks undone, the shirt buttons mismatched in their holes. The shirt itself smelled strongly of alcohol, a bottle of hundred ducat liquor sacrificed to be splattered over the fabric in careless abandon. As an afterthought, he shook his hair out of its customary ponytail, and stepped out onto the main street, making for the gateway leading up to the rim boulevard.

Anyone who met him on the streets at this hour would immediately know, not necessarily who, but what he was — betrayed by the fine weave of his clothes and his strong features, the high cheekbones and hawk-like nose, rendered so prominent by generations of Gabriels fussily preserving the bloodline. No different from any other high house, in a world where pedigree was everything, the most power going to the houses that could trace their ancestry to the time before the Great Collapse. The people in the lower tiers were easy to deceive, simple laborers who only knew their rulers as impersonal voices and couldn't even dream of getting as far as the rim. For their lives, a person's past and origin held no meaning as long as he was willing to get his hands dirty. None of the clans were, and so it was a simple matter to walk among them undisturbed, and listen, and learn.

The rim boulevard was another matter entirely. A spiral circuit winding its way to the upper tier that had been fashioned after a legendary city of gamblers, it was home to the luxury brothels and bars, the pulse of Zepp's night life. Full of people who were trained to recognize a wealthy spender on the spot, and full of prying eyes, whores and bouncers and half-drunk patrons, ready and willing to tell anyone who and what they saw for a handful of silver coins. It was better to try hiding in plain view, just another noble son wasting his youth on the glitzy temptations of the rim, and the stink of hard liquor, coupled with an unsteady shuffle, did the rest to discourage any late-working prostitutes from accosting him. Nobody liked the idea of having a prospective suitor be sick all over them, even if the suitor had the money to pay for the damage thrice over.

Rubbing at his temple, Aren stepped out onto the moving walkway, rising steadily towards the top tier gate. The light was getting stronger, rolling over the city like a honey-colored mist and making his eyes ache with the strain.

A night of sifting through the darkened back alley shops by the wavering shine of an oil lamp was taking its toll, but it was all worth it. There lived the people nobody talked to and everyone overlooked, tiny cogs in a great clockwork. Insignificant when taken individually, but put together, and made to grind against the larger cogs, they could yield the occasional spark of insight. Most of them didn't even require money to talk; they simply chattered and gossiped amongst themselves, unguarded and unprompted, content in the knowledge that nothing they did and nothing they had to say would mean the slightest thing to anyone of even remote importance.

That made it easy to find out who had recently requested the disposal of an unusually large pile of scrap, or who had hired a squad of dock workers for double the wage if they worked swiftly and silently, and most definitely forgot the type of ship they were unloading the cargo from. That was the wonderful thing about the bell jar existence of Zepp — even if there were no papers, no records of a happening, someone had always seen something, or knew someone who had seen something, or might be able to find out whether someone had seen something, all in the name of neighborly support and welfare.

For Aren, each of these small sparks offered up pieces of a larger puzzle, an intricate web of events and circumstances that, by themselves, were simple coincidences, small, singular irregularities that happened a hundred times a day. A late-night shipment, without papers or lists, a sum of money that went missing in one place only to surface in another, all of them nothing noteworthy in a city whose only ironclad rule was to never betray the cause: Zepp against the rest of the world. Almost anything was accepted, and what wasn't mostly went unpunished, the lower tiers regulating themselves with their own codes of honor. No one was going to ask about unmarked cargo, with the unspoken understanding that it was stolen, swiped from some excavation site or an Order transport, with pirates as convenient allies in the supply business, food and clothing and holds full of ore against free maintenance and a place to lay low, wrapped in the blanket of plausible deniability.

Aren was the only one who thought to keep track of it, of the ins and outs of the lower city, discontent with the lack of attention paid to even the most basic of things. The nobles liked to use the lower tiers, and, after a fashion, the lower tiers used them in return, but they didn't intersect, separated by layers of money and history. Descending from the rim was like passing through a force field, the crackling tension of one magnet rejecting the pull of another, until it seemed like the high tier might break off and float away into the stratosphere, while the rest of the city was ready to plummet towards the ground.

Up ahead, the Hub was coming into view, its dozen branching pods shutting down the lights one by one. Cobbled together from every vaguely East Asian artifact ever unearthed, it tended to look far more impressive at night, lit up like a red beacon, its numerous lanterns reflecting off decorative beams, statues and wall scrolls plastered to the structure wherever there was room. Nobody in Zepp had seen East Asia in almost two hundred years, but it mattered little; the Hub's claim to exotic authenticity was backed significantly by the attraction of free drinks, and the fact that it never ran out of gambling tables.

At this hour, the casino was closing up, the unfriendly faces out front a sure sign that the night's earnings were being put away inside, but Aren paid them no heed, staggering straight past the entrance and around the next corner, where his last stop for the night was waiting.

The man in the alleyway was a small, portly figure, everything from his clothes to the way he carried himself a sure sign that he didn't belong in such a place. Though he was out of uniform, the cheap fabric of his coat and the set of his shoulders marked him as a second-rate servant, and when he caught sight of Aren, he lurched forward reflexively as if a nervous instinct commanded him to bow.

"Master Gabriel..."

"Jonah." Aren murmured, directing them further into the shadows between the buildings. "I received your message. You have what I asked for, then?"

"I. I, um, well..." The man glanced at him, partly in genuine fear, partly with the peculiar jerkiness of someone who had no way left out. Aren didn't need to ask to know it had been a bad night; the Hub rarely had good nights for its patrons, and if he remembered right, the man should have already been on his second advance for this month, drawn to the rim by the irresistible hope of imitating his masters.

"Here, sir," he managed eventually, pulling out a wrinkled envelope and passing it to Aren. "I couldn't get very much, sir, the master's always so careful with his correspondence... this is just what he told me to burn."

"It will suffice. You've looked at them?"

"No! I mean, no, of course not, sir, I wouldn't dare, not after— it's the truth, sir, I swear it."

"It doesn't matter to me one way or the other," Aren said, carefully tucking the envelope into his shirt. "But for your own sake, I suggest you don't remain in the chairman's household."

The man blanched. "You mean..."

"As you said yourself, your master is a very careful man." Reaching into the pouch on his belt, he drew out a satchel, filled to the brim with gold-pressed ducats, and placed it into the servant's shaky hands. "This should be able to buy your way to safety, and then some."

"Master Gabriel... where should I go?"

"Some place less conspicuous than the high tier," Aren said simply. He didn't add 'and the rim,' but it would have been a futile warning, anyway. There was little doubt the man would find his way up here again with time, in a month or two at best, reeled in by the allure of the cards against his better judgment.

"But, sir, I've got family, I can't just... Is there no way you'd perhaps consider...?"

"You are a decent fellow, Jonah. However, you can't expect me to employ a man whose lifestyle renders him so... approachable." He smiled thinly. "If you care to count the money, I think you'll find it to provide for everything you might need."

"I... yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Fidgeting, the man tried to peer around the corner. "I... I should get going, sir. Before... before."

"That might be for the best, yes. Safe passage to you."

He didn't catch the mumbled reply, the man hastily stumbling out of the alley to flee the reminder of his deed, and his desperation. Unlikely that he would manage to set his own life in order, that the ducats would see much use except to amass greater debts. Unlikely that he would even muster the strength to break away from his employer, save his own skin and that of his family. Zepp didn't make concessions to the weak, those without the good sense to stay afloat on their own wit and cunning, and Aren had long since learned that there was no way to save a fool from drowning, if he didn't wish to go under himself.

Shaking his head, he retrieved his boot knife and returned his attention to the envelope. A quick slice along the edge revealed a stack of letters, each of them unaddressed and unsigned, written in the smudged print of a machine. So much for his idea of taking them to a forger, who might have been able to tell the sender by handwriting. With whomever the chairman was in contact, they were certainly a lot more careful than—

Leafing through the pages, he froze, his eyes drawn to a single line.

After a moment's staring, he tucked the letters back inside, his step quickening as he set out for the gate, all thoughts of pretense forgotten. Zepp might not make concessions to the weak, but if he didn't hurry, it would soon stop making concessions to everyone else.

* * *

For members of the council, President Isan Gabriel had always been a thorn in the side, ever since he had succeeded his father, also a thorn in their side. Apart from their policies or personal feuds, the singularly most despicable thing about the Gabriel clan was that they could conclusively trace their lineage the furthest and highest out of anyone in the city, to the man with whom it all began. The only name to be recovered from Zepp's nebulous beginnings, and although there were no portraits or personal effects, the name appeared in the oldest records of the foundation era, a faceless, unalterable constant.

If one listened to the gossip at banquets and official functions, there was no end to the reasons to oppose the current president, from the rumor that he'd forged his connection to the founding father to the usual suggestions of deviant sexual appetites, though the one most often cited was his cowardice. In a city that was fast, from its people to its machines to its very way of life, Isan Gabriel was slow — slow-moving, slow-speaking, and slow to take action as well. He never made a decision unless he could be sure of all the facts, and though this trait was what had kept things from erupting into an all-out war with the Order for more than twenty years, Aren was the first to admit that it made his father a frustrating man to talk to.

"I do wish you'd let me know when you run off on one of your nightly escapades, Aren. You can't simply expect things to stay on their course while you go crawling the slums."

At the far end of the dining table, the president barely looked up from a sheet of paper he was studying, with the same preternatural thoroughness he used for everything. It wasn't unusual for his father to be up well before this hour, and at another time, Aren might have mistaken the paper in his hand to be simply a part of the day's work, a proposal or a personal invitation. Wouldn't have thought twice about it, and plowed on ahead with his discovery in an effort to get past his father's obstinate insistence on routine, if it hadn't been for the sight of his fingers, rubbing across the emblem of the family's crest, pinned against his breast pocket.

"I have my reasons, sir," Aren replied, curiosity overtaking irritation at the reprimand. Closing the wing doors to the dining room, he stepped closer, trying to catch a glimpse of the president's face and finding no change to his expression. The only irregularity was the small motions of his hand, worrying at the metal brooch.

Wordlessly, he slid into his seat, waiting for him to speak.

"A bird found its way to my window tonight."

It was the slowness, he decided, the fact that the president never raised his voice above a murmur, that made his rivals view him as weak. Aren knew better, even if they often disagreed on the right course of action, him intent on bringing his enemies to destruction, the president more content to wait and see whether enemies would destroy each other. He was a man of few emotions, even fewer reactions, and there was nothing he said that wasn't thought through down to its last syllable, so to see him fiddling, picking at his uniform like someone unaware of his own station was enough to fill Aren with unease, as well.

"A bird, can you imagine? With this tied to its leg." He held the letter out for him to take. "I can't even begin to imagine how he managed to get it there, but I have no doubt its message is genuine."

Aren frowned, for a moment less concerned with the contents of the message and its unsafe transportation than the fact that there was a message at all. Potemkin knew better than to break the radio silence, better than to do or say anything that might be traced back to the house of Gabriel. "What does he have to report?"

"A rather dire failure on our part to assess the situation."

"That's..."

The message was short, artless in its simplicity, and yet, it couldn't have been more damning if it tried.

Ky Kiske, messiah of the ground, attacked by Zeppian machinery.

Every child knew the story, even the most embittered of Zeppian nationalists, those who vehemently denied that it was anything but a scam, the Church's way of trying to claim victory for something that had, at the very least, been a collective effort — Ky Kiske, the Order's golden boy, Gearslayer and savior of the known world. Aren had never known what to make of the story, but he knew enough of legends to be aware that there was no smoke without a fire, and in this moment, truth or fiction mattered not one bit because the legend had been rendered real, more real than any heroic rhyming couplets—

Ky Kiske, anything from wounded to dying, while his followers abandoned grief for revenge.

Gritting his teeth, Aren reached for the cup, downing it to dislodge the sudden lump that was closing up his windpipe. Whatever he might have assumed about the sudden departure of that research team, it hadn't been this. Not this, spelled out in black on white, and he was sure Potemkin couldn't have known, couldn't have known the slightest thing or he would have made sure that ship never reached its destination.

Planning, all those years of caution, acrobatics on a high wire, dodging confrontation, sneaking around Order patrols and security, snatching up the villages they didn't care to protect, all that careful preparation for a dialogue gone, wasted...

"It can't be. They wouldn't. They couldn't possibly— this is _insane_."

"We knew, though." The president was stroking his mustache, the only outward sign of his discomfort. "We knew that Ghor has been pushing for war."

"By turning us into the aggressor?"

"What does it matter, if history remembers the victors?"

"That's—" Biting his tongue, Aren tried to grasp a clear thought in the flood of scenarios for the very near future, neatly matched with their individual body counts. Indeed, what did it matter, what did it matter if the chairman was so certain of their chances that he was willing to abandon any hint of pretense, even the flimsiest of charades—

He stopped.

What did it matter, indeed.

Here he was, acting like a common simpleton, shocked at what was, for all intents and purposes, just an unforeseen turn of events, and so dependant on another's information when that information was wrong. The president was wrong. There was still a way.

Smiling grimly, he reached into his shirt, sliding the smudged envelope across the table.

"And what would this be?" the president said, and though his voice remained quiet, there was no mistaking his displeasure at having his mind caught racing down the same lanes as Aren's, spooked at the thought of new conflict.

"Call it the fruits of my late-night wanderings, if you will. A rather intriguing exchange of words with our mysterious co-conspirators, straight from the chambers of Chairman Ghor himself."

Another thing that made the president frustrating to deal with was that he always wore the same unmoving expression that could be interpreted as anything from contemplative to uncaring, lips pursed, eyes retreating behind bushy brows. If he was surprised at the findings, he didn't show it, but Aren thought there might have been a gleam in his eyes all the same, some kind of minor commendation as he studied the letters with excessive care.

"So, it seems we were wrong on this account, too," he finally murmured, lowering the pages. "They certainly don't sound like those fools from the Vatican."

"Perhaps not," Aren said, taking this as a cue to push ahead, "but it fits, doesn't it? If they really went and started a war, then Zepp was never the goal. Just a means to an end, with the both of us as neat little scapegoats if anything went wrong."

The president nodded, reaching up to smooth one hand across his mustache. "Still. Still... exposing these strangers, even just indicting Ghor... it would take more time than we have. The Order might very well be mobilizing troops as we speak."

"Who says we need to?"

"...Pardon?"

"Who says we need to go to all the trouble, with no guarantee of the outcome?" Aren said, raising an eyebrow and gesturing at the letters. "Why not let the injured party decide for us?"

The president didn't reply, fixing him with a hard stare.

"These letters would render Ghor guilty in the Vatican's eyes. Even if they don't believe us, they could hardly ignore such a gesture of goodwill. If we were to turn him in..."

"With a maneuver as underhanded as our enemy's."

"It's the way this city works, _father_," Aren countered. "I didn't think I'd have to remind you of that. The war was just a drain stopper. Now, everything's circling down, and we've got people like Ghor stomping over everything _we've_ worked for."

"What happens in Zepp stays in Zepp," the president said, but he hadn't stopped rubbing the emblem, a certain resignation coloring his tone.

"And if they have their way, pretty soon, Zepp won't stay anywhere at all. I for one won't stand idly by while they sell our future to the highest bidder. What will you do?"

His mustache trembling with a sigh, the president pushed back from the table, gathering up the evidence. "Very well. Inform the staff that I want the ship to be ready in half an hour. I have a call to make."

* * *

The glider cut across the sky, weaving carefully between the towers. Apart from the docks, the high tier was the only area where ships could take off and land without smearing against the walls, the buildings less tightly packed, but still sufficiently linked by corridors and walkways so that any aircraft larger than a noble gondola would find itself in trouble.

The president's glider had sacrificed comfort for security, the weight of plush seating and an onboard bar exchanged for an enforced hull and an extra floor compartments' worth of guns. It didn't matter much to the passengers, the four guards busy with piloting and silence, their masters both preoccupied with their own thoughts.

"I wish you'd stop fiddling with that," the president said eventually, turning from his perusal of the scenery.

Aren didn't pause in his task, feeding shells into the short-barreled shotgun and smoothing a hand across the grip. Satisfied, he slid it back into his leg holster. "Forgive me for being just a tiny bit nervous, sir. Four men is hardly peak security."

"And I can hardly take so many men that it looks like we're trying to storm the council hall."

"You think Ghor is going to harbor the same considerations?" Aren said, reaching up to fix the leather straps of his trusty ocular. "I still don't like that he agreed to meet with us so easily."

"There is no sense in letting suspicion become paranoia, or allowing it to cloud your judgment of character. Ghor is man of minor caliber. Always with his hands in something on the side, but put a bit of pressure on him and he folds like a house of cards. Besides... I thought you already learned that lesson." The president paused, pushing back the folds of his coat to reveal two sleek silver pistols. "Appearance is everything."

"Sir, we're ready to land."

The president nodded, ignoring Aren's dark look. "Put her down, but keep the engines running. The three of you will come with me. Just because we travel light doesn't mean we have to go bumbling around like fools."

Aren nodded curtly. He had long since learned the points he could argue, and his father had always been too much of a soldier, too much of a general not to demand unquestioning obedience in the field. None of this made the plan any more agreeable. It was only owing to the president's hopeless old-fashioned ideals that they were here at all, negotiating like solicitors in their own city, instead of taking what was their right and due. Ghor was still a vassal before the law, and if it had been him, there would have been no talk, no meetings, just a swift strike in the middle of the night and a messenger dispatched to the Order come morning.

Up ahead, the council hall was coming into view, easily the tallest of all the tall towers, losing itself in the press of buildings closer to the mid-tier. Some claimed that it reached all the way down, past the layers and far into the mass of rock that was Zepp's underbelly, though no one had ever been down there to make certain, any doors leading past the mid-tear sealed so tight that no hammer or welding machine would even put a dent in them. As a child, the idea had intrigued him, but now, as a grown up, a handful of years away from taking control, he could see it for what it really was — an old building, just old, like everything in Zepp, slowly decaying from the inside out. The president might have led them through the war, but he had grown old, too, firmly rooted in something that no longer existed, and what was left of it was steadily crumbling away.

Aren had been down in the slums often enough to see as much, to hear the people talk — if anything from the high tier even penetrated so deeply, it was treated as nothing more than a curiosity, names and faces and rules that had nothing to do with the life of a plumber scraping by on the skin of his teeth in his little corner shop, wondering just when he'd agreed to never go elsewhere, somewhere vaster and brighter with an apple or two to stuff in his children's pockets from time to time.

His father was old, too, too old to acknowledge that no one would care if he simply gave the order to storm Ghor's manor and take him into custody. No one except the other houses, and their stance could be easily reversed once Ghor ceased to be around to spread his promises. They loved their money too much, their baubles and taffeta dresses, to risk them against even a shred of reasonable doubt.

The ship hit the landing platform with a soft thump, the engine slowing from a deafening roar to a steady hum. At the president's signal, the guards pulled open the door, falling into step beside him as he descended onto the concrete. Aren followed in their wake.

Chairman Ghor was already waiting for them, two of his own personal guards standing in attendance. He seemed nervous, almost frightened, shifting his weight from foot to foot, his smile a twitchy facsimile as he held out his hand for the president to shake.

"Mr. President."

"Mr. Chairman, thank you for coming. Since we are rather pressed for time, allow me to get straight to the point—"

Aren tuned them out. It was old men talk, steeped in flowers of speech that meant the exact opposite of what they were saying, nothing but words to prolong the inevitable. A part of him was wishing he'd taken matters into his own hands right from the start, now that months of cumbersome secrecy had turned out to be all for nothing. At the very least, he should have kept Ghor's involvement to himself, gone after him on his own — it would have been swift, would have taken their opponents by surprise, and though the president would have been furious once he found out, he would've had to go along with it in the end if he wished to save the city. He didn't like being here, out in the open, winding his way through sycophantic phrases and empty diplomacy.

A slight turn brought the ocular to life, bathing the right side of his vision in an unnatural green glow. A family heirloom, he'd been told, rotting away in the vaults of the Gabriel mansion like so many other things, and though he didn't know exactly how it worked, it had served him well on more than one occasion. Where the false green hit a source of heat, it refracted, splitting into all hues from yellow to red. Slowly, he swept his gaze over the platform, lingering on the balustrade above the entrance, the higher windows, and each of the ornamental columns along its edge, but the light remained the same gently flickering green. Experimentally, he turned to study the escort, pulsing in varying shades of red and orange, except for the pale slash of the handgun, concealed against their sides.

Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing out of the ordinary, and yet...

"—while the methods through which I've come by this evidence are dubious, I have no choice but to consider the matter in the light of recent developments on the ground."

"Unbelievable. Simply unbelievable. Five generations of unbroken service to our country, and yet you'd believe the words of those dirt-dwelling plebes?"

"I give consideration to their words because it's my duty," the president said. "As it is my duty to give consideration to yours. I would hear your reasons, would you be inclined to give them."

"You'd like that, I suppose. I demand an official hearing, _and_ full disclosure of your so-called sources. I won't let you turn this country into a place where we run investigations like a papal satellite state!" Ghor hadn't ceased shifting, his motions growing more erratic by the minute, and though he seemed to be doing a fine job of working himself into a frenzy, his attention had yet to stray from the president.

Aren stopped, and narrowed his eyes.

_If you were a man built like a house of cards... would you seek out the one who can blow you down?_

He'd been too young to properly make a name for himself in the war, but his marksmanship hadn't suffered for it. The gun was in his hand before a guard on either side had the chance to do more than jerk in surprise, the safety grinding back with unmistakable intent.

"Do drop your weapons, gentlemen. I'd rather we all not act foolish and put my aim to the test."

"Aren, what are you doing?"

"Chalk it up to my paranoia, sir, but I believe we've been here quite long enough. Mr. Chairman, I'm sure you can expect a... well, a swift trial." He waved his gun at the guards, who seemed to have decided not to place their master at risk and were unbuckling their holsters. "The small ones, too. Oh, don't look so dumbfounded, you know which ones I mean."

Ghor, he noted, had stopped playing both the nervous wreck and the offended victim the second he'd come face to face with the gun; in fact, his entire posture had grown rigid, taller than he'd ever stood during his speeches at the council meetings.

"You've managed to raise a rather perceptive young man there, Gabriel. I must say I'm quite surprised."

"...I believe the young man would like for you to call off anyone you might have posted around here," the president replied evenly, reaching for his own weapons. That was the nice thing about veterans - they could only be taken off guard once; everything else was just rolling with the punches.

"Or you'll shoot me? Pardon me, but I was under the impression that I'd be worth more alive than dead to you."

"I wouldn't worry too much," Aren said, nudging away the discarded guns with his foot. "I hear they aren't above burning corpses at the stake if they have to. Now then, I would be most obliged if you complied with the president's wishes."

To his surprise, Ghor merely smiled. "That might prove problematic. You see, time is just about up. And once they start... they really can't be stopped."

Maybe it was that the chairman's eyes flickered skyward for a moment, or perhaps just the cliché he'd expected, _anticipated_— a red gleam at the corner of his vision, and he yanked up the gun before he could even see—

_Impossible, /impossible/, there was no one there, I /saw/—_

The shot hit its mark with the high-pitched ring of a bullet denting metal, and Aren only had a second to realize that the red haze in his ocular hadn't been a person at all, before a swath of searing brightness cut down, and the ground simply burst into flames.

* * *

The reasons he didn't die in that instant would only come to him later, at a point when exhaustion took over and began to show him visions that would keep jerking him awake, shaking at their vivid detail. The first was the bodyguards, poised dutifully in front of his father with their guns in hand, burning in the brunt of the attack. The second was his father's hands, imbued with an inhuman strength, pushing him away.

The force of the blast sent him flying across the platform, skipping like a pebble hitting pavement and rolling to a standstill. Adrenaline had him pushing himself off the ground not a moment after, drowning out the pounding agony in his throat, his head, his chest, forbidding any question of how and who and where. All that was left was room for the realization that there was fire before him, and the abyss behind him, and the sight of two gleaming silhouettes leaping nimbly from a tenth story balcony.

The glider. He had to reach the glider.

Dragging himself to his feet took more effort than anticipated, his left ankle screaming when he tried to force it to bear his weight. Twisted, most likely, and that was going to be the least of his problems because the figures straightened, and even through the smoke, he was certain he could see their eyes flare bright yellow.

_Weapon... that weapon... and we thought they didn't have the capacity to go for mass production—_

_/For fuck's sake, run!/_

Useless to try and cover his retreat, the bullets zinging off the armor without so much as taking off a single plate, but he couldn't not try, give them something to keep busy with when a decent jog could have tackled him, when not shooting meant he was left with nothing but stumbling backwards, tottering like a helpless child. Blood, there was blood, and he couldn't even tell whose it was, his or a guard's -

—_or my father's—_

—and he couldn't even risk glancing back to check if the ship was still there until he stumbled, and his back hit metal in the most painful way.

"Go!"

Another shot, his free hand clawing along the glider's side until it hit the side hatch, his feet scrambling up onto the skids, and the pilot was still frozen, staring at the platform with a face of slack, fascinated horror.

"Go, go, go, _go!_"

Yelling, his voice high and reedy from the acrid fumes, tumbling backwards in a heap as the gun emptied, the pilot finally, mercifully reaching for the controls, fingers fluttering along the dashboard with the speed of the panicked, and then the glider blasted off, leaving behind a wave of dust. Aren spent a moment lying on his back as the ship was climbing, gasping and not taking anything in, everything blurring together in front of his eyes.

_Better get up, get the door shut, unless you want them to pick you off like a rooftop pigeon..._

The cockpit exploded.

At least, that was what he was left to assume, one moment of not looking at the pilot and in the next, the entire metal frame was rupturing, bursting open like a rotten fruit — anti-flak armor, that had been anti-flak armor — the ship's headless torso rotating, tilting, ammo and flecks of broken glass spilling towards nothing, and then he was falling, and then he was screaming.

* * *

The second explosion rocked the landing platform, the engines collapsing in on themselves with a howl and swallowing the whole airship in a blast of blue-red energy. No debris, no crashing wreckage, just an iridescent swelling that rose up, reducing everything to ash.

Slowly, Ghor rose to his feet, dusting off his coat. Around him, his guards were rising, as well, groaning weakly from the unexpected display of power. At the edge of the platform, the robots had stopped, folded back into their dormant position. Shaking his head, he stepped forward to survey the damage, four bodies burned almost beyond recognition.

"What a mess. Meirth never knew how to pace himself."

Wrinkling his nose against the stench, he bent down to retrieve the only thing that had withstood the fire without the slightest scratch, winking bright and golden in its accustomed place over the president's left breast. It came loose rather easily, nothing but a simple brooch bearing a tower framed by a pair of wings, pompous in its symbolism. A foundation for the future, or so the Gabriels claimed. He couldn't imagine what anyone saw in such a trinket, save for the fact that it had survived the heat unscathed, when nothing else had.

"S-sir?"

One of the guards approached hesitantly, casting nervous glances in the direction of the machines.

Ghor closed his fingers around the emblem. "Inform our friends that we have what they asked for."

"Yes, sir."

"Have someone clean up this place, then dispatch a team to Gabriel's mansion. Make sure no one gets away. Oh, and... try not to use bullets. The ground loves its swords and crossbows, after all."

"Y-yes, sir." With a salute, the guard withdrew.

Ghor remained standing on the platform for a little while longer, thumb smoothing across the engravings on the brooch, gazing down at the remains of the man who could now be called his predecessor. It was the one benefit of waiting for so long, he supposed.

After all, that could have been him.

.

.

.

.

.

-TBC-

* * *

**A/N:** This chapter only took me, like, forever. XD Next time, it's back to Ky, and more explosions, and maybe finally Sol. In the meantime, C&C is appreciated, as usual.

Now for the small stuff:

- Hey, don't look at me for the blowing-up-the-president thing. Canon did that, first.  
- Yep, Gabriel has a kid. Why? Because I like the idea of Ky meeting an antithesis of himself.  
- And we have our McGuffin. That wasn't subtle at all or anything.


	15. Interlude IV: A chance meeting

**Title:** Going off the Record  
**Part:** Interlude, for worldbuilding purposes (war-era)  
**Fandom:** Guilty Gear  
**Pairing:** Sol/Ky  
**Rating:** R  
**Contains:** Alternate Timeline beginning around GGX, boom and stabbity. Now with 100% more end of the world.**  
**

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.**  
**

**Going off the Record**  
_Interlude IV_

_._

_.  
_

"Watch your step."

The murmur returned as an echo of itself, a tinny multitude of voices bouncing back and forth between the walls. There was no need to turn, to cast a glance over his shoulder to know that the soldiers at his back had flinched, the nervous spike in magical power more than proof enough, though Ky did, anyway, a small sign to let them know their apprehension had been noticed, and understood. Unlikely that that they'd take the gesture's spirit for what it was even if they'd been able to fully see his face, the sudden sharpness to their movements enough to hint at their embarrassment, the thought that they'd managed to draw his attention at all.

Amazing, the thought that he could fault them when they had every right to be on edge, wedged along the outcroppings of a near vertical shaft, unable to properly draw their weapons and uncertain they'd do much good, anyway. It didn't even matter that they were as young as they were, broken in just enough for their hands to stop trembling in the face of a threat, when the stories they'd grown up on were the kind that stuck in a child's receptive mind forever, and were nearly as old as the war itself.

"Blast doors are blocked. Doesn't look like anything nasty's still inside."

The flash of a shape, a shift of rubble, and Sol was back up on the ledge beside him, crouched in the space between the tip of his sword and a wall made up entirely of jagged, dented metal. He seemed no less comfortable for it, perched like a gargoyle on top of a cathedral roof, and Ky was pretty certain that he could see perfectly, undaunted by the sparse light from far above. Leaning forward, Ky peered down the remainder of the distance, the walls of the shaft quickly giving way to a much wider darkness.

"Should be able to bust through... seems fine to light up, but you tell me."

Sol shifted, palm open to await his go-ahead, and the fact that he hadn't simply chosen to kindle a spell on his own initiative told Ky all he needed to know. It was the one thing he could pride himself on, the one thing he could best Sol in without pushing his body to its limits, though the migraines tended to render any actual feeling of triumph moot — another one of a lightning user's double-edged talents, a sensitivity to magic far beyond what a normal mage was capable of. The faint sensation against his skin had been a constant ever since they'd approached the crash site, not quite thin enough to be anything like air, not quite thick enough to be anything like mist, and entirely too much like the sixth sense trying to tell the difference between shadow and monster creeping in the night, making him reluctant to move his fingers away from the small depression near the hilt that would send the Furaiken sizzling to life.

A foolish urge, that, but it was enough that he could tell the difference, the invisible force brushing against the hairs on his neck speaking of danger but not violence. Not exactly the kind of warning he could have expected from such a place, altogether too subdued for a ship this size, and yet, it was the only reason he hadn't just ordered the placement of a beacon, and left the rest to any cleaning squads the Order might choose to send.

"It should be fine. Just go slow, and not all at once."

A hum of agreement, and then a small flame was climbing up between them, casting Sol's features in stark relief. Around them, the magic surged and steadied, the very air so saturated with its pulse that the slightest change prompted a reaction, like a sleeping beast shifting when disturbed. He couldn't even begin to guess what this meant for the reactor, if it even was at all like the reactors any of them were used to — a leak, most likely, perhaps only a partial core breach, or else he would have felt tempted to give up his lunch long before they'd gotten close enough for the chance to go up in a ball of iridescent fire.

_If they have jettisoned it, and it hasn't been crushed into the ground, and what you're dealing with here aren't the beginnings of a scar._

"Something the matter?"

Sol, watching him, and it was hard to tell whether the flicker in his eyes was irritation at the hold-up or actual discomfort.

"No. Just thinking we should get moving again asap. I don't want us camping on this bit of land longer than we strictly have to."

"Scar?"

"It feels a little off, but... it's a possibility."

"Well, lovely." Sol grabbed onto the edge with barely any regard to his palms, swinging his legs into the darkness again. "Then let's get a move on. Unless you're looking forward to growing scales on your dick."

Ky rolled his eyes. "That wouldn't do, no. How much of a drop?"

"Just a bit over six feet." A smirk. "If you ask nicely..."

"I'd say you'll be fully occupied worrying about yourself." A spark would have been too much of a risk, and unprofessional at that, but that didn't mean he couldn't give Sol a good shove, and Sol was lazy enough to allow the push to send him down the hole again. "Alright, we're going in. Don't touch anything you're unfamiliar with, leave things where they are. I know Order protocol demands blacktech recovery, but I'd prefer to keep this low-risk. We're just here to catalogue, see if there are supplies we can use. Don't use spells unless you have to, stay alert, and report anything untoward."

"Yes, sir."

Echoed as one as Ky pushed himself back from the wall, sliding a bit to the left to avoid Sol's mockingly outstretched arms, and leapt, straight into the bowels of the Zeppian wreckage.

* * *

"Incredible... from here, the damage doesn't even look that bad."

He still hadn't dared to activate the Furaiken, the residue of magic curling more restlessly the deeper they went. All he had to see by was the palm Sol didn't seem to mind sacrificing as a torch, though he had little illusion that the man was just as deadly one-armed, or even that the sword on his back was little more than a tool, a slight modification to someone who could tear through steel blast doors like rice paper. Around them, the airship was a silent tomb, identical corridors running into and away from each other, streamlined in a way the Order engineers had never managed. Pipes half the size for twice the output, complex wiring meant to operate automated doors and seal them shut. Broken, of course, spilling out onto the floor a dozen at a time, paneling torn loose by the impact, but nothing that couldn't be fixed, nothing that came in any way close to the destruction he'd seen at an Order crash site, ruptured hulls, the insides burning out.

The Order might have known their magic better, had had more than enough time to craft the theory for the finest spellwork far and wide, but Zepp had the finesse, the gift to turn a lump of metal into an object of any size and strength they desired without even pausing for breath. Heresy, to hold admiration for the enemy. Commander Undersn had the stories that nobody wanted to hear told, stories of sleek, screaming dive bombers weaving in and out between Gears a hundred times their size, tales of breaking bread with a stray smuggler clan at dusk, a sense of wonder filling up the silence for their lack of common words.

The few and solitary as the basis of a society, a single caravan not even the size of a platoon but charged with accomplishing the same things, a single pilot locked in the cockpit of those silver birds, utterly alone inside a carapace that was no protection at all. It was impossible not to harbor a fascination for such people, though he'd never met even one of them, precepts of fear and the perverse crumbling like sand in the face of his own curiosity. A curiosity that demanded he think the unthinkable, and consider the impossible, and saw Zepp as by far not the most mysterious or the most dangerous out of all the things to contemplate.

"Nothing in here, either." Sol closed the door to a room the size of a walk-in closet, stuffed to the brim with a delicate grid of interlocking cogs. "Doesn't look like this place got turned into a Gear nest."

Not for a lack of signs that they'd been here, of course, had smashed their way inside in search of prey — long, inch-deep claw marks on the walls, the soot of a firefight all over. No bodies, not that the Gears would have left them, neither of the unlucky crew nor their own.

"That's what's worrying me..." Ky trailed off, trying to decide if a ship of this sophistication would also be packing significantly more power than an Order ship of comparable size. The Ignatius class carried twin crystals in its reactor chambers, each the size of a human torso and powerful enough to require days of preparation work to install them. He'd been present in the shipyard when they were putting one of the reactors together, to watch the mages weaving seal after seal to the point of exhaustion, a hundredfold containment spells linking with each other to form a field strong enough to keep the explosion from eating more than ten miles surrounding the yard, should anything go awry.

This reactor hadn't exploded, but was leaking its magic continuously into the ground, the air and everything in a radius of miles, enough to keep away the Gears for good and make the army mages develop varying degrees of headache, nature's warning of unpleasant consequences. There was a reason Order engineers lived as rigorously celibate as any monk, why so many villages had to be relocated entirely even if they had been saved. God's scar was the official term, as dramatic as it was appropriate, the directionless, artificial magic from the battle artillery seeping into every living thing, and, with enough time, irrevocably changing parts of the body.

"How long do you suppose it's been here?"

"Well, shit, boyscout," Sol muttered, shrugging his shoulders. "You're the magical chronometer, if you can't tell..."

"Not precisely, no. I'd like to find the log, if at all possible. I don't want to endanger anyone for a sealing unless we know for sure."

"And you'll be participating."

It wasn't a question. It never was, Sol entirely too smart and entirely too cynical not to know what he was thinking, when he was thinking it, and even after all this time the idea would still take him by surprise — the realization that Sol would be able to lead, even with his lack of subtlety, easily a Commander in his own right if only he would choose. A responsibility he claimed not to want, a role dismissed with the flick of a casual finger, and yet, Sol was doing it anyway, quietly, with the rank of a common soldier, calculating the same things, the number of mages it would take, the amount of time they'd all need to recover from the drain. Planning. Wondering. Worrying, somewhere deep down, for every single man, just as much as he did. Worrying, impossibly enough, beyond the desire to wring his neck nine times out of ten, about him.

_And I don't think you realize, what it is... and if I told you, if I let it on, you'd have to find the next steady surface to bash your skull in._

"Nothing I haven't done before."

"Yeah, well," and here Sol shoved open another door, to a room with a table anchored to the floor and chairs smashed every which way, "it'll be me who has to babysit your unconscious ass after the fact."

A month or two ago, he would have scowled, rankled beyond reason at the insult to his competence, but now, he was fighting down a smile, the jab at his height or his skill or even the one time he had actually keeled over from drain symptoms a familiar beat, a way to keep the game going. Saying what they meant without ever saying it. "You seem to be rather stuck on that. Perhaps I should—"

"..ir? Sir?" The static from the earpiece nearly swallowed the soldier's voice, making him strain to listen.

"Kiske speaking."

"We found the freight rooms, sir. Three decks below you, sir, towards the rear. They've been sealed up, it's really weird, sir..."

"Understood. I'll be—"

A sharp, loud sound, its reverberations ringing through the ether both inside the radio and without, and he couldn't help but jump, instinctively seeking to duck.

"Private? Private!"

Static, no matter how much he tapped his fingers against the earpiece, and he looked over at Sol to find the same realization reflected in his eyes. Too weak to be the reactor, too aggressive to be the noise of a door closing or a container falling.

"Private, report!"

"...Sir? We... have a situation."

* * *

When he'd been about twelve, Commander Undersn had taken him into the vaults far below headquarters for a lesson that required few words to grasp its meaning. Down, and down, past flights of stairs and crankshaft elevators, buried deep and good like it was the norm for Order business. Like most of them, it was an illegal lesson, anything that had to do with history, true history found outside books and pamphlets, but it didn't occur to him just how much the Commander might be risking until they reached the deepest level, and the seals drew back to let the heavy metal door swing open, revealing a secret as old as the first years of the war.

Cells, dozens of them, white and empty underneath the dust of disuse, and examination rooms that were just as white, filled with flat chrome tables and instruments, the faint smell of chemicals still holding up against the decay. The sisters at the orphanage had called magic a gift, a blessing from heaven to aid humanity in the hour of its greatest need. Under Commander Undersn, he'd learned to call it an aptitude, a word to show that magic could be studied, and wielded, and understood, but until that moment, he'd never realized what its rarity truly meant for the Order. The best, most efficient weapon against the Gears, distributed among only a fraction of its soldiers. All that power, stronger than any tool or weapon, and no one knew where it came from, or how, which children would manifest and which would go through life without so much as a flicker of divinity. It took little to imagine the reasoning, clean and efficient, discussed around a table with cushioned seats and little tea cups, the tallies with their numbers in black ink, as irrefutable as the slow, crushing realization that taking down the Gears was not a matter of months, or even a handful of years. They would have to prepare for the long run.

There was no telling how long it had taken the scientists to give up on the goal, and enough bunks to hold hundreds of test subjects. Little to no evidence as to their suffering — transfusions of mages' blood, exposure to magic fields, and, close to the end, in an act of sheer desperation, crushed crystal waste in their food and drink. Useless, all of it, their bodies trying to reject what they couldn't process, the magic forcibly bonding with anything it could latch onto, skin, hair, and internal organs, choking the soul until there was only madness left.

The man before him now wasn't a mage and had no power signature to call his own, just an ugly, writhing jumble of magic trying to assimilate into his body, staring at the world out of sunken eyes half-blind with a quicksilver sheen. Once upon a time, he would have been imposing, tall and broad-shouldered in his military fatigues, holding himself with the confidence of a veteran, but there was no way to say how long he'd been down here, weeks or even months, locked in near darkness with the burn of magic pushing him towards the edge of reason. In his hand, the gun was trembling, the slash of the barrel wavering from one soldier to the next, each poised for combat.

"Commander!"

The shout sent the barrel jerking towards him, the aim guided almost entirely by instinct, and he felt more than heard Sol huff at having their advantage ruined. Not that it mattered much, when rushing and tackling the man might very well transform the cargo bay into an inferno, the magic just waiting to resonate with something, anything at all, a small spark of terror or fury enough to set it off. The man might not have been able to cast a true spell, but his body had soaked up sufficient energy to cause serious damage. Taking off the edge was the most important thing right now, when he couldn't even be sure what the man was seeing, whether he could even still recognize them as people or whether the magic was already turning his surroundings into a series of ghostly glowing shapes.

With a wave, Ky signaled his men to stand down, but the Zeppian soldier barely seemed to notice, most of his attention fixed on him. Taking a breath, Ky stepped forward, summoning the beginnings of a containment spell as he did so. He'd talked drain-afflicted magic users out of going on a panicked rampage before, but not someone like this, and never someone to whom he was the enemy even outside a hazy fever dream. No telling if even the words would be too much, and if it came to that, at least he could keep anyone else from coming to harm.

"Please don't be alarmed. We are soldiers of the Sacred Order of Holy Knights, but we want to help. Do you understand?"

When there was no answer, he took another step, the second sequence of the spell twining with the first. "We didn't know anyone had survived the crash. We wanted to—"

"...Start scavenging, you mean."

Hoarse and spoken with great effort, but calm past anything he should have been capable of, a hint of disdain showing through his heavy accent. The man licked his lips, not really noticing when they came away dry.

"I won't deny that. But now that we know better, we want to offer our help."

The man started to shake his head, staggering when the motion was too much for him to take. "Is that... what you lot... call taking prisoners?" A click, the sound of another round chambering. "Leave, now."

"I'm afraid that's not possible," Ky said, the spell weaving itself to completion in his mind, ready to be released. "The area around this ship has become very dangerous. We'll have to take measures to ensure it doesn't get worse."

"Heh. You're not getting this ship, and you're not getting any 'heretics' for burning, either."

Bitter now, so very bitter, and Ky couldn't even refute the accusation in good conscience, Zeppian smugglers raiding villages under the cover of a Gear attack the same way the inquisitors would drag off stranded troops or sympathizers to stand trial, and being sentenced to a public whipping was usually the best any of them could to hope for. There was too much bad blood to even know where to begin, and the soldier wouldn't believe him, anyway, reassurances bearing little to no meaning coming from an enemy.

"You're very sick."

A simple statement, but it seemed to throw the man all the same, his brow furrowing as he tried to add up the words, looking for scorn or pity, and frowning more deeply when he couldn't find it. His attention was almost entirely on Ky now, enough not to see what the small shift in the atmosphere was telling Ky, that Sol had left his position at the entrance, blending with the greater dark of the cargo containers.

"...What are you talking about."

"You've failed to jettison the reactor core, and the magic is starting to contaminate everything around the crash site. Yourself included." Hard to believe that a member of the crew wouldn't know, or wouldn't have realized in time what was happening, when even the youngest, most backwater of farm boys couldn't pass their first day in recruitment without hearing all the ways in which magic was a heavenly light, and twice the ways in which it could ruin everyone's day. The man was hardly a low-ranking grunt, too keen and too strong-willed to let anything so basic slip his notice.

"Bullshit." He coughed, his entire upper body shaking with the force of it, and Ky didn't need to see the fist he'd pressed against his mouth to know that it was coming away dark and wet.

"You don't have to listen to me," Ky said quietly. "But you should listen to your own body. It's trying to shut down."

"That isn't—"

A weak moan interrupted his protest, startling them both.

"Was that—?"

"Stay back!" The gun jerked again, trying to aim for the center of his chest, but wavering between his left shoulder and the wall.

"...Sol?" Ky asked, not a notch above the quiet conversation they'd been having. "How many?"

There was a pause, Sol probably kneeling down to check for breath. "...Goddamn infirmary back here. Ten... no, twelve guys. Tell the medics to get their asses over here."

"Understood." Shuffling at his back indicated that the two soldiers were already moving, unbuckling their equipment packs as they went.

"Nobody move," the Zeppian crewman croaked, his arm trembling with the effort of holding the gun steady enough to try and pull back the hammer.

With a small gesture that sent the medics on ahead, Ky held out his hand. "Your loyalty is admirable, and I swear on my honor that we won't harm your comrades. But they need help, and fast, the same as you."

"Don't move... or I'll shoot."

"You won't do that."

"Name... name one good reason why I wouldn't."

With a small smile, Ky closed his fingers around the barrel of the gun, felt it give under his grip as if even holding onto it was too great a strain. "Because you know I'm right."

* * *

Zepp was another subject on the lesson plan of budding young commander candidates that would have gotten Kliff Undersn court-martialed thrice over if the Vatican could have found someone else to do his job. He had a gift for telling stories, not in a manner that was especially animated, but with a gentle kind of humor, making it easy for Ky to pick out the questions the Commander wanted him to ask, the things he wanted him to look out for. Never clear-cut, and never simple, questions of faith, and duty, and ethics, of trading off honesty and pride for cunning and cunning for kindness, and from their afternoon debates, it didn't take much to arrive at intelligence reports, at the minutes of closed meetings, where high officials deliberated in earnest how much it would cost to take down Zepp, how many months, how many troops, how many resources, even now. Whether it could be done swiftly, whether the city should be destroyed or taken, how to proceed with the civilians in such a case, should any even exist.

The decisions he would have to make, would be able to make, if such a proposal ever went through.

"You look dead on your feet."

The stack of papers came down on his head as something between a casual tap and an earnest whack, completely unconcerned with the nurse's glare as she had to readjust her scan spell to compensate for the intruding aura. Reaching up, Ky risked a glance at Sol's face, the mildly put-upon expression as if he'd been sent to the mess tent to ask about dinner instead of clambering around inside a wreckage while every available mage was busy throwing a barrage of sealing incantations at the place. Anyone else, and they probably would have dropped dead, but Sol looked none the worse for the wear as he handed over the crude inventory list, plus a small set of notes that appeared to be someone's diary.

"I hadn't noticed," Ky said, giving the nurse a nod of thanks as she withdrew to consult her chart. "A few more rounds and this area should be set."

"Define 'a few more'."

"Five or six. That wreck's been here at least three months. Three months... it's a miracle any of them are even alive."

"You're all set, sir." The nurse had returned to remove the tape around his arm, beaming. "But I want you back in here after the next round, or I'll have to send someone to fetch you."

"I won't let it come to that, I promise," Ky said as he rose from his chair, shrugging back into his coat and turning to Sol. "If you're still feeling gallant, do me a favor and check up on the sealing teams. I'm..."

"...not going to do anything sensible," Sol muttered as they made their way towards the tent exit.

"Going to check up on our guests," Ky corrected. "They moved our sharpshooter a little while ago. I'd like to see how he's doing."

"Like I said, not going to do anything sensible."

"If you're that worried about my getting into trouble for ignoring regulations, you might want to try breaking fewer of them, yourself."

Instead of the childish retort he'd come to expect, Sol chose to turn away, scowling at a spot in the middle distance. "You ever met a Zeppian, kid?"

"No. Have you?" Tilting his head, Ky regarded his profile, the tight set of his jaw usually reserved for inquisitors and especially unpleasant officials. In the first few weeks, the ease and experience with which Sol handled machinery both broken and illegal had struck him, to a point where he'd entertained the notion that he might have something to do with Zepp. A theory as good as any, or as poor as any, to explain the baffling inconsistencies around the man, but it hadn't taken him long to file it away in favor of even more glaring mysteries. Now, though, he was wondering again.

"All I'm saying is they're crafty bastards. If they see an opportunity, they'll exploit it. That's their way of doing business." Sol exhaled, and glanced back over his shoulder. "Don't give away anything you don't mind losing. They don't think much of your special brand of altruism up there."

It took him a second to realize that Sol was waiting for an acknowledgment, some kind of confirmation as if he'd been talking to a particularly wide-eyed child, when he would usually simply voice his opinions and walk away. Wrestling down the urge to answer with a perturbed scowl of his own, Ky reached for a faint smirk. "That doesn't sound too foreign, then. I'll just pretend I'm at a brass meeting."

* * *

The tent for the recovering magic users was quiet and mostly empty, save for a nurse restocking medical supplies near the entrance. For the moment, the wards had been toned down, enough not to excite the condition of their unusual patient, just a faint pinprick sensation as Ky ducked inside. The gunman was lying on a cot near the back, his eyes closed and breathing regular, cleansed from the coil of foreign magic. Despite that, the consequences of overexposure had been engraved on his body, the outside only an incomplete mirror of the inside — the white-bleached hair, the stark, bony veins bulging from his throat and temples, pulsing with an unnatural glow. His torso and arms had been wrapped in bandages, one reaching up to his elbow, the other all the way to his shoulder, a small kindness on the doctors' part to hide what they couldn't change, the peeling layers of scales starting to show under the rim of the dressings.

For just a moment, Ky found himself wanting to avert his gaze. For just that moment, he forced himself to linger, until the desire had passed.

"...They send them in for gawking, now?"

The man's eyes remained closed and his lips hardly moved, forcing the whisper out of his badly scarred throat.

"Forgive me. I meant no disrespect."

"Heh. You..." Turning his head, the man cracked one eye open to reveal something else the doctors hadn't been able to fix, the iris still bearing the same metallic sheen. "You're the one, from before..."

"Yes, we spoke," Ky said, giving him a smile of recognition, though it might as well have been a sneer. "Though I've failed to introduce myself. I'm Commander Kiske. The circumstances probably don't seem very pleasant, but for what it's worth... welcome."

"...Commander?" Choosing to ignore the greeting, the man squinted, straining for a clear image. "Whose son... are you, that they'd make a child commander?"

"I assure you that I've earned my position, and not by virtue of my birth," Ky said, watching the twist of the man's mouth, a kind of recognition in it that went beyond simple mockery. "Besides, I recall some among your crew who can't have been much older than myself."

"...My crew..."

"You're their captain, aren't you?" Ky asked, choosing to push onward. The tags on the foreign uniforms meant little to him, but the stranger had held himself like a leader, trying to defend the safety of his men. "May I ask your name?"

"My name's... none of your business," the captain croaked, trying to push himself upright. "Where are my men? I want to see them."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible for at least another day. Your crew are still undergoing treatment; if you were to expose yourself to the spells now..."

"Treatment, right," he snarled, exhaustion giving way to a sudden fury that pulled the skin taut against his swollen veins. "Treating the answers right out of them, I suppose. If you have to interrogate someone, at least—"

"I've given you my word that neither you nor your crew will come to any harm, and I stand by that. The cleansing process is quite difficult, so—"

"You really think I'm going to believe anything from the mouth of the Pope's dog?"

With a shrug, Ky leaned forward, meeting the piercing silver stare. "If we're going to play by these rules, captain, I should have gone in expecting this ship to be a trap set by a bunch of thieving Zeppian heretics... and where would that leave us?"

After a long silence, the captain averted his gaze, sinking back into the pillow.

"I think you knew very well that we were your only hope, even at the risk of captivity," Ky continued. "We have absolutely no reason to keep you and your crew apart, save your own health. I have to return to my duties now, but I'll instruct a nurse to take you to them as soon as it's safe for you to do so."

The captain didn't reply, his face turned towards the distant rectangle of the entrance, away from the proof of his own helplessness. In a way, Ky supposed, it would have been easier if he'd been younger, just a simple crewman frightened out of his wits by the changes in his body, the unfamiliar surroundings and any horror stories he might have heard, instead of this proud man, responsible for the soldiers under his command, ashamed at his own instincts for choosing survival.

"Hey." The call reached him just as Ky had been about to duck outside, turning back around to find the captain staring at him again, a challenge in his eyes. "What if the lying, thieving Zeppian heretic gets well enough to decide that nurse would make a fine hostage?"

With an easy smile, Ky drew back the flap. "Then you'll find our nurses to be well-trained in the art of inflicting painful, if not lasting damage on unruly occupants. Rest well, captain."

* * *

A lie gets halfway around the world before the truth can even get its pants on. Unlike a message or report, rumors were designed to build on a lack of information, to cobble together vague notions and blend them with strong feelings, curiosity, superstition, fear. In his lessons, the Commander taught him not to listen to them, while listening all the same, using them to understand the unease that led them to spread. If Ky combined every last bit of gossip he'd ever heard about Zeppians, the bedtime frights, the angry sermons of the wandering preachers, the whispers and concerns at strategy meetings, he had to admit the creature they formed was a nasty thing indeed, somewhere between alp and imp, alternately a source of temptation and the bringer of misfortune. A ridiculous thing, too, and one he couldn't in all seriousness believe in, but now he found that some things had still stuck in his mind, their hooks too close to reality to simply be brushed aside.

He'd seen it on his own side entirely too often, the kind of thinking that saw people replaced by stacks of silver coins in a heartbeat, the ease of a lord's disregard for his own subjects, that he found himself frozen in surprise at the sight — the captain, his head bowed at the bedside of an unconscious crewman, murmuring encouragements in their strange, lilting language. Whatever prideful anger he had managed upon Ky's first visit was gone now, his shoulders slumped, his voice tired and raw, and in that moment, it was easy to imagine them, cowering in the near-darkness of a doomed ship with no one besides each other, their hope dwindling with every passing day that their distress signal might have found its way home.

"I can't get him to leave, sir," the nurse murmured, casting an anxious glance over her shoulder. "It was only meant to be for a short while, but... he's been here since this morning, without a moment's break. I'm worried..."

"The spells?" Ky asked.

"He doesn't know yet, sir, but..." She lowered her gaze. "He's deteriorated too far. They all are..."

"I understand. I'll talk to him."

The captain didn't move, barely looking up when Ky stepped to his side, his bandaged hands folded around the clenched fist of his feverish subordinate. "If you're here to tell me to leave, you'll have to send in the guards."

"I'm not. As long as you understand the danger—"

"They said it was dangerous, because of..." He examined the bandages, the nerve endings too damaged to even feel the pain of the hardening and peeling skin. "...because of what's been happening to us."

A shrug, and when he glanced up, the guilt was visible in every line on his face, spelling out what he couldn't voice to an enemy — that he hadn't known, that he wished he'd known, that by the time he'd thought to think that anything was wrong, most of his crew had been too sick to move.

"What's going to happen to us?"

Not even trying for defiance anymore, nothing available past exhaustion, and the heavy realization that the country that had him flying supply runs through concentrated Gear swarms, every day for who-knew-how-many years, wasn't really interested enough in anything he was doing to tell him how to protect his own men. There should have been something to say here, anything besides the recognition of the steps to an old, old tune, all of the Commander's struggles to grant his own soldiers even a modicum of agency, but Ky couldn't think of anything that wouldn't be salt in an open wound.

"My superiors know nothing of this incident, and I intend to keep it that way," he said eventually, surveying the row of beds to give the captain time to collect himself. "If at all possible, I'd like for you to think of yourselves as our guests for the time being. We won't be able to repair your airship, but... I'd still like to do everything I can to help you return home."

"Your guests..." the captain repeated slowly, as if turning the syllables over in his mouth and finding them to have a strange aftertaste. "You would take the risk of letting us walk around and do what we please?"

"I've seen what I need to know," Ky said, eyes straying back to the captain's hands, still clasped around the young crewman's in a strange mirror of a priest's bedside manner. "The front doesn't exactly lend itself to hospitality, but you should be able to rest, and recover."

"...And your people feel the same way?"

"My people know their duties."

The captain had turned to face him fully, searching his expression for any hint of insincerity. "You're telling me a nice sum of money for turning in a bunch of heathens wouldn't sound tempting to any of them? To you?"

Ky only shook his head. If there was one thing inquisitors truly excelled at, it was turning their own would-be informants against them, so much so that even in an army whose main host consisted of underpaid farmhands, they found few desperate enough to cooperate. "I trust my men to carry out their orders."

With a quiet huff, the captain turned away again. "Where I'm from, that kind of thinking's bound to land you a dagger in the back."

Ky smiled. "So I've been told."

"Why do this, then? If our roles were reversed, you know I wouldn't do the same for you."

"I know. And I'd expect nothing else."

"Then why?"

"Because this world is full of fighting. I figure here might not be a bad time to stop."

The sun was hanging low on the horizon by the time the last round of spells started to settle, a flock of tendrils that would have been invisible if not for all the wild magic it was reacting with, backlit by the red-gold glow of the sunset. At the foot of the ravine, the members of team three were high-fiving each other, giddy with coming off a high-adrenaline assignment, and Ky allowed himself a small sigh, able to enjoy the first cup of stew without the slightly disturbing sensation of a _presence_mingling with the steam.

The crunch of debris was more a courtesy than anything else, Sol's version of a warning before a metal canister came rattling down the mound beside him, so battered that it could hardly be described as cylindrical anymore. A second later, Sol followed, various tears in his uniform from carrying containers, clambering all over the crash site, and possibly taking that opportunity to venture into a few spaces not fit for a man of his size.

"Found it."

"Where was it?" Ky asked, turning over the signal buoy on its side to look for any signs of familiarity beyond its shape and finding none. Dials that meant nothing to him, no sign of a modulator, nothing to show that it was even still active beyond an array of lights at the front, flashing a faint green.

"Just half a mile to the east. It's still sending."

"I see." There was no point in asking how he knew. "Out of range, you think?"

Sol shrugged his shoulders, wincing a little when it seemed to irritate a muscle. "Depends on how generous you want to be. Could be just as easily that they decided a recovery wasn't worth it. The ship wasn't carrying too much of value, after all."

Just grain, and sugar, bales of flax, parts of weapons and machinery. Nothing that couldn't be replaced in a city such as Paris, relatively safe and away from the front, but for a small, isolated island without resources... "You really think they could afford that?"

Sol didn't reply, instead opting for a swig of his canteen. Just when Ky was about to return to his stew, he said, "Can't phone home with that, at any rate. If they weren't listening before, I doubt they'll be listening now."

"Yes, there is that. What do you propose we do, then? We can't exactly take the crew with us; they'd be arrested as soon as we get to the next town."

"Zepp's got its hiding holes all over. If they were doing business with the ground, then they should know a couple of spots."

"And lead an Order contingent there? Not likely," Ky said, downing the rest of his cup.

"That, boyscout, is your problem," Sol said, a glint of schadenfreude flaring in his eyes. "You want my opinion, though, tether the horses and double the watch on the weapons depot."

Cocking his head, Ky shot him a sidelong glance, catching the same hard set of his mouth, the same refusal to give up what he was getting at. This wasn't about the captain or the rest of the freighter crew any more than his previous warning had been free advice. "...You really don't like them, do you. Zeppians, I mean."

The blunt approach rarely worked, and he could see Sol deliberating what to tell him even as he gave another shrug, as casually as they came. "Place's got a few skeletons in its closet, is all."

"Such as?"

He knew, even as he posed the question, that it wouldn't get him an answer, that this was as much as Sol was willing to share, and so he wasn't too disappointed to have a small rain of pebbles skittering down the slope, signaling an interruption.

"Sir?" The soldier ducked his head briefly, realizing Ky wasn't alone. "I'm sorry to bother you, sir, but... that captain. He's been asking to see you. I wasn't sure if—"

"It's all right, private." Sol was already getting up, waving dismissively, and Ky was pretty sure he'd find him looking through the cargo later on, taking apart blacktech for parts. "Return to your duties; I'll be up in a moment."

"...Sir." A moment's hesitation, a hint of the unease now that their guests were making the transition from invalids to soldiers again. Everyone respected mages, what they could do and what they went through to do it, and patients with magic poisoning were more or less similar, a category of their own to be treated with care, no matter where they came from or how young and green they were. Under different circumstances, it would have been amusing, to see these boys raised on rumors and scares forget about them almost completely, and only remember tags like 'heretic' and 'Zeppian' once their guests were up and out again, wearing their strange uniforms and speaking in their strange accent, carrying strange secrets wherever they went.

"It will be fine, private," Ky said, lips quirking ruefully at the thought that another briefing might be due. It couldn't hurt to give them a reminder, reaffirm their trust in his decisions. "Remember, you're the one with the sword."

* * *

"Captain."

The greeting went unacknowledged, the captain's attention taken up entirely by the display ahead of them, the flashes of light intensifying as more of the magic became bound and neutralized, like far-off sheet lightning.

"It's amazing..." he murmured eventually, his voice just a note too breathless for a simple compliment. "It looks... it looks almost like the shield back home."

"The shield?" Ky asked, determined to keep his own tone casually interested. This was the first time the captain had chosen to reveal anything personal, too concerned about having anything he said end up as the basis for some kind of anti-Zeppian attack plan or weaponry. If nothing else, it was a cause for contemplation, this fierce, near-paranoid protectiveness — outside of secret brass meetings, the possibility of war with Zepp was barely discussed, but here was a mere freighter captain, sensing the possibility for all-out war at every turn. Not all that hard to imagine the need for so much fear and worry, an extreme mirror of what was going on at his own side, when things like ignorance and blind faith didn't make for very threatening enemies. Zepp thought them stupid, and it was a bit hard to argue with some aspects of it when there was so much bureaucracy, a hundred forms to fill out for every tiny request so that the request sputtered and died on the fifth copy, so many theatrics surrounding perfectly ordinary machinery, but above all, they were many against Zepp's few, sitting on top of everything the city might need.

"The shield around my city," the captain said, one hand tracing the vaguely dome-shaped arc of the seal. "When the sun hits it just right, it looks like this, like it's made of gold... it's hard to believe you got this done without any machines."

"I'm sure your mages are capable of similar feats."

"The few we have, they're trained as technicians, not..." He cut himself off, squeezing his injured arms as if to remind himself of where he was, and to whom he was talking.

Ky waited to see if he would continue, and, when nothing was forthcoming, gestured for him to follow to the small table that had been set up at the edge of the impact site, an improvised map pinned to its length to show the flow of the excess magic and any spots it was especially fond of pooling in. His dinner was still sitting there in its thermos, mostly untouched, and he grabbed the other cup that had come with it, pouring the stew and nudging it towards the captain.

"Where I'm from, a host spying on his guests is considered a rather shameful act."

Curling his hands around the cup, the captain smiled thinly. "Where I'm from, we have no word for 'guest'."

"No word, really?"

"The closest thing... well, I guess it would be synonymous with 'favor'."

Ky nodded, no need for further explanation. Help without any expectations was a rare enough concept even in a world that preached forgiveness and loving one's neighbor and all the other good, Christian virtues, but he couldn't even begin to imagine the world view behind such a decision, the removal of an entire concept from a language. The idea of an unbiased welcome, the safety of acceptance and rest without the worry of a price. He wondered if this had to do with what Sol had meant, when he'd alluded to skeletons.

"You would feel more comfortable, then, if I were to demand something in return for my hospitality?"

"I don't like what I can't see, Commander," the captain said slowly, and even through the permanent sheen the magic had left in his gaze, it was easy to see his deliberation. "Your people speak to an entity that doesn't exist, and give thanks to powers not their own. I've heard them speak of you like you're part of these invisible things, and then I look at you and see a child leading an army, and that should be it but it isn't." He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was low, a difficult admission to make. "I don't like this difference between what I know and what I can see."

"I understand. A contract, then." Ky extended his hand. "For any answer you choose to give, you may demand an answer in return, on anything excepting military secrets. Anything you tell me is for my ears only, and anything I tell you will be the same. If you're determined to regard your stay here as a debt, then I'll hereby ask for payment with the following: since your cargo has to be technically considered lost, that we may use your materials to repair our own weapons, and half of the provisions you were carrying. Does that sound fair?"

"You aren't asking for anything that wouldn't have been your due anyway, Commander."

"My proposal stands."

The captain raised his eyebrows, but when Ky showed no sign of changing his mind, he eventually reached out, grasping his hand in a shake that was as much cautious as it was his fingers unable to fully close. Hard to believe he'd ever fly again, that when the healing energy wore off, his life wouldn't be one of constant pain.

With a small nod, Ky pushed the thought aside for the time being, bending down to place the signal buoy on the table. It lolled slightly under the captain's astonished gaze, waiting to be stabilized. "I believe this belongs to you."

"This isn't part of our contract, Commander."

"I'm terribly new to this whole contract thing," Ky said, not entirely willing or able to hold back the glimmer of amusement. "I hope you're willing to consider it a minor violation."

It took a while for the captain to stop searching his face, and even longer for him to reach out again, placing his palm on top of the cylinder and pressing down. With a soft whir, the buoy went dead, its blinking lights going out one by one. After a long silence, the captain took up the cup, examining the contents. "That's... actual meat in there, isn't it?"

"Dried, yes. The supply lines have been holding up quite well for this time of year."

"We've been living on pickles for the past four weeks." A lopsided grin, to brush away defeat and loneliness and strangeness. "I really hate pickles."

* * *

The first piece of blacktech he'd ever encountered had been the small, banged-up tea kettle that was part of Commander Undersn's marching gear, a metal pitcher sitting on top of a flat plate that had been wired to a chip of crystal, barely the size of a fingernail and enough to provide the heat for two cups at a time. It was there, on the porch of the candidate training compound with two steaming cups of peppermint infusion sitting between them, that he learned such a piece of technology had originally been called "electric," that he could take it apart and poke at its pieces and reuse them for other devices, as long as they followed the same basic principles. It wasn't until years later that he finally met the ill-tempered repairman responsible for the magical hybrid tea kettle, and came to recognize his handiwork in half of the still functioning guns in the regiment.

Sol didn't so much teach as he pretended he couldn't sense Ky watching whenever the mobile cannons broke down, or a casual stroll through an abandoned depot unearthed the blackest of blacktech, to be turned into heaters, torches or bits of radio equipment. He rarely gave instructions and hardly ever answered any of the million questions vying for attention in Ky's mind, what the parts were called, what they had been meant for, how he knew, what he knew, why so many pieces bore such an eerie resemblance to Order technology. If he hadn't known better, he would have said that Sol was simply enjoying his superiority, unwilling as he was to divulge any of his secrets, but every now and then, when Ky paused in taking apart the strange devices on his own and glanced over, he'd catch him watching in return, and sense the barest hint of approval.

"Does the Order know that its commanders are playing with — what was it again — devil tools?"

The captain's tone might have been sarcasm if not for the genuine surprise shining through, stepping towards him across the pile of crates and boxes. Ky looked up from the gun parts splayed across his lap to catch sight of a few of the soldiers tracking the captain's progress, but dropping their gaze when they noticed their Commander's lack of objection to his presence.

"It's all right," Ky returned cheerfully, holding up the bowl of clear water that was there more for the sake of appearances than anything else. "I've been performing exorcisms all morning."

At the confusion on the captain's face, he added, "Holy water."

"...your world view is a strange one, Commander." With a certain heaviness, the captain sat down on the container beside him, a sure sign that even the short climbing expedition was taking its toll more than he was willing to let on. "If this... god of yours made everything in this world, as you say, why does he make two kinds of water?"

"It's not quite that," Ky said, returning to taking apart the heavy magic rifle, its barrel alone a good deal taller than he was. The fine wiring for the output adjustment had melted partially, one of the side effects of the new cores — greater output at the expense of absolutely horrendous wastage of material. "It's more that we take water and perform rites to give it a particular purpose."

"So you offer to your god something you say he has given to you." The captain grinned. "In my country, we call this chutzpah."

Ky laughed, grabbing the pliers and extracting the wiring of the device he'd pulled from the machinery containers, a scratched casket with a handle on top and a dial at the front. He had no idea what it might have been used for once upon a time, a little oddly shaped and so quaint-looking that even the staunchest of inquisitors would have had a difficult time selling it to anyone as the work of Satan's own.

After watching him in silence for a while, the captain picked up the bowl, examining it for markings or anything that would show its contents as special. "And having this nearby will keep you safe, you think."

"Oh no, not at all," Ky said, far too entertained by the idea. "I'm not even supposed to be doing this. The actual procedure is, we catalogue, we report what we've found, we receive word what must be destroyed and what should be brought back for safekeeping, and then, technically, we all have to go to confession or undertake a ritual cleansing to save our souls from eternal punishment. I've just taken the liberty of... diverting the process into something more useful."

"So you are violating the code of your way of life."

"Just my organization's." Ky shrugged, pulling out the sooty mess and starting in on attaching the cables he'd found. "My teacher used to tell me that morality is for those with food in their mouths and money in their pockets. A lot of rules sound good on paper until you hit the field and realize just how much of it is an obstacle or doesn't make sense."

The captain nodded, a shadow stealing across his face momentarily. "Your teacher sounds like a wise man."

"He'd laugh if you told him that."

"Still, it seems he has managed to raise quite the cuckoo's egg. Do you know what this is, Commander?"

He patted the gutted casket, waiting for Ky to look at him expectantly.

"A waffle iron."

"You're joking."

"An electric waffle iron." For a moment, the flat silvery sheen in his eyes parted for an almost wolfish gleam. "You are using a two-hundred-year-old breakfast appliance to fix your magic gun. And this, Commander, means you've grasped the essence of what it means to be Zeppian."

* * *

Ky's first month of field training had seen him flung to the far south, with a regiment of soldiers cobbled together from villages that no longer existed, who hadn't seen a commanding officer in over six months. His candidate's education ensured that he left headquarters proficient in seven major languages, could give orders and ask directions and calm down frightened refugees in just as many more, and all of them proved to be utterly useless. Out of the soldiers he was meant to lead, not one knew how to read a map or operate the equipment they had been left with, and barely two of them spoke the same dialect, a tangle of variants that was neither Greek nor Slavic, where half of the vocabulary of one seemed to classify as insults to the other.

A month of chafing against superstition and language barriers resulted in a corps of proficient gunners, quite a few soldiers with a newly awakened passion for anything mechanic, and a command language that was a mix of barely pronounceable English and the three dialects that were considered the least offensive to anyone around. It had been its own brand of fun, mentally double-checking every order to make sure he'd told them to take that hill and not to do unspeakable things to somebody's grandmother. Still, it had been something of a relief when the Commander's voice came scratching across the radio again, his French clear and grammatical and full of wry amusement, calling him back to a part of the army that wasn't unreasonably wary of headphones.

If he'd had any remaining doubts about the captain, they would have disappeared in that moment, watching the sheer joy on his face at being reunited with his crew. People he knew, people like him, with the same language and the same beliefs and all the same small gestures, unexpectedly returned to him in a land full of strangers. All of them awake, still groggy from their artificial sleep and reasonably wary, sneaking glances at their strange surroundings, the medical staff, and, during their captain's briefing-turned-story, also at him.

"They're stable for the moment, sir." The doctor had bent his head towards Ky, voice lowered to a murmur as he glanced towards his patients. "As long as they don't do anything to aggravate their condition, they should... well."

Ky nodded, sparing the doctor from having to say it out loud — that they'd done all they could, drawn out the excess magic, gotten their vital organs in working order again, but that there was no way to halt the transformation‚ let alone reverse it, not with patients so far gone. They would bear the mark of their ordeal from here on out, ever-expanding, ever-shifting, turning skin to scales and blood vessels to bone, and doing worse where nobody could see, deep inside the body, to heart and lung and soul.

"Do they know yet?"

"I've put off telling them for the time being. It could be too much at once," the doctor said, and Ky said nothing because there was no gentle way of telling someone that they would be losing their face, and voice, and, if worse came to worst, possibly their mind. "I should do some more examinations. Figure out if there's any way to build up a resistance, something. With your permission, sir..."

"Of course."

With a slight bow, the doctor made his way towards the soldiers, reaching for his instrument bag as he did so. After a brief exchange of words and some clipped instructions in Zeppian, the captain withdrew from their bedside, hesitating briefly in the space of uselessness at the doctor's back, before moving to join Ky near the entrance. For a long while, he said nothing, just watching the doctor move from soldier to soldier, returning the anxious glances of his men with quiet reassurance. His right hand hadn't stopped squeezing his upper arm, though, ever conscious of the change hidden under the layers of cloth.

"It's not stopping, is it."

His voice was soft, and final, less an earnest question and more confirmation of the inevitable.

"No. I'm afraid we don't know how, not at this stage," Ky said, biting down on further expressions of regret because he was certain the captain wouldn't have wanted them. "What are you going to do now?"

The captain took a deep breath, pressing his lips together. "...There's no way for us to return to Zepp. The way we are now... we'd frighten people. Couldn't go back to doing runs, anyway, with what the doctor said."

"Then..."

"I'm thinking we could make it to a smuggler enclave. Decide everything else later." He shrugged, his lips twitching. "They don't really mind how odd folks get, so long as they can dig and mine. It'd be a living. We might be able to get a message home, too."

"Are they far, these enclaves?" Ky asked, only to receive a flat look in return. "...I'll tell my men to see to provisions and horses, then."

"You can't stand to lose these beasts, Commander, and I wouldn't know what to offer in return, regardless."

"I'm not interested in returns, Captain. You should know that by now."

"And I still don't understand it."

"In my experience, it's all right to sometimes leave yourself to a mystery," Ky said, a chuckle in his voice as he turned to go. "If you're able to swallow your pride long enough, I'll even throw in a few riding lessons."

"...Sieg." He had almost ducked outside by the time the word reached him, faint but solemn.

"...Captain?"

"I didn't tell you, when you asked before. Sieg. My name is Sieg."

.

.

.

.

-TBC-

* * *

**A/N:** Heavens, it's been a long time. Didn't mean to drop off the face of the Earth like that, but 2011 has it in for me. Also, I realize this isn't what I promised, and that yes, this was, in effect, 10,000 words of filler. It'll all be important soon. Or not. Promise. XD Next time, actual things will proceed to happen. Yeah.

- I've got no idea what Zeppian is, really. Bit of pseudo-German, bit of pseudo-Russian. Not like canon can make up its mind about that country, anyway. Artistic liberty!


	16. Chapter 12

"I checked your proposal."

The tone was mild, airy, a folder sliding towards him from the peaks of his carefully organized chaos, memos, print-outs, and research notes just one step away from collapsing in an avalanche of bureaucracy. A hand on the back of his chair, right beside his neck, and the familiarity of the gesture made his insides clench — except it didn't, not then, not yet. Here, in this time, it meant nothing, as easy and comfortable as the perpetual smell of sterility and coffee dregs, and his old self just leaned back, head tilted as far as it would go, and tried to pinch his vision into focus.

"It was sound until page twenty-three when you called your detractors a bunch of sputum-gargling shitweasels."

To his left, a chair scraped across the floor, the books it had been buried under joining the piles on his desk in an effort to prevent a cambrian shift. He winced, the smell of success — menthol cigarettes, aftershave and shirt starch — splintering into its components, chemicals on top of chemicals, but that was wrong, too, too early, and far too aware.

The him from back then simply snorted and drained the rest of his mug, down to the grit, didn't matter as long as it was caffeine. "I used sources."

"'Your mom' is not a source."

"No." He grinned. "But yours is."

"And you wonder why we don't let you out to play with the other kids."

"Just does what it says on the tin." He pointed to his chest, where the emblazoned letters had adopted a faintly pinkish hue over the years. _Warning, doesn't play well with others._ The shirt had been a gag gift, back when he'd sent most of their fellow chemistry students to the consultant's office to see about switching majors. "You know what I think of this."

"We've been over this, Freddie. Making our investors cry means no more fancy toys for you." A poor attempt at a bribe appeared in his line of vision, and when he reached out to grab it, the fresh mug made a detour for the other chair. Always playing games. Little games to change the world.

"If you're that worried about me misbehaving, just tell Aria to wear a short skirt. Works beautifully as a preemptive apology."

Laughter, the amused, honest kind that would haunt him in the years to come. "No way. She'd kill me. Especially after last time when she got mistaken for my secretary." A sigh. "Look, just get some shut-eye. Remember to shave. Try not to get into a fight with their science consultant. There'll be a buffet afterwards. With beer. I promise I'll even help you with your tie."

He grunted, as noncommittally as he could to avoid having it sound like an assent, like he understood and agreed with the importance of sucking up to a bunch of corporate assclowns. He didn't, never had, though he would have plenty of time later, afterwards, to pick out all the ways in which he should have cared, all the closed-door deals, all the hidden meanings, all the ways in which he thought he'd been supported, and understood. All the ways in which the bastard might have thought the same.

Now, though, all it meant was a stuffy suit and three hours of his precious lab time wasted on explaining things to less smart people, to _market_ himself as if his character had anything to do with the project. He was going to need another pot of coffee.

"Try not to make that face when you meet them."

"What face?"

"The angry goblin shark face. Please, Fred. It's taken me weeks to land them. Sweet-talked them off the Japanese project. If we cut a good figure here, we'll be able to leave the corporate labs in the dust." A rueful grin for the fate of the independents. "Then the money'll come in more easily and you can spend your days being a caffeine-powered people-hating machine again."

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, rubbing a hand across his chin and finding that the five-o'clock shadow had turned into a five-o'clock-and-two-days-ago. "Fucking idiots. Afraid of the smallest risks."

"Most people aren't thrill seekers when it comes to their wallets. We're talking half a billion potential dollars here."

"No, generally." He made a half-hearted grab in the direction of the fresh mug, not really straining to reach it. On the desk, an entire printer roll's worth of equations rustled with the movement, half adorned with notes in the margins, the other half still awaiting their check. If he went back to them now, he could squeeze maybe another two hours of math out of his brain before it zoned out completely. Math was always the last thing to go, to the point where he'd started dreaming in numbers. He couldn't remember the last time he'd bothered to use his voice for anything that wasn't, "Yes," "No," or "Go away." The bastard would be able tell him. He always could.

"They're holding sit-ins in front of the Ethics Commission building downtown. Did you know? Actual singing-protest-songs-praying-together-ranting-about-the-laws-of-God sit-ins."

"You mean you haven't heard of that? Christ, Fred, where've you— actually, no. I know where you've been." A chuckle. "Guess they just haven't found out where you live, yet. Aria's had to erase her number from the directory, and I've… well. Let's just say the Lamborghini'll be needing a new paint job."

The whistle of a sigh, mourning the passing of a nicely polished car hood. It would be years before he could appreciate the sheer wrongness of that, in the light of everything that had happened, in the light of everything still to come.

"Well, shit. That's what I'm talking about, though. Change. Everyone wants it, but when it comes down to actually going through with anything, they can't clutch their pearls fast enough."

"The world's a damn complicated place, Fred."

"And run by idiots."

It was a conversation they'd had many times before, as far back as when they'd been spending Friday nights on the dorm roof, smoking, knocking back a few beers, and devising creative methods of driving their science teachers insane. An assessment they could both agree on, a secret handshake that meant they were both on the same page, that they knew exactly what was wrong with the world, how to fix it and what it would take. That they weren't afraid to be the ones to take that step over the edge, and into a new era.

More laughter. "Prerequisite for making everything so damn complicated."

"Hn."

"Well," a smirk, a clap on his shoulder, "if we all play by the rules for just a little while longer, pretty soon the world should be a lot less complicated."

* * *

Sol woke with a start, nostrils burning with the stink of disinfectant and stale memories. One hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword before he knew what he was doing, the other scrabbling at his forehead where the pain was buried under two inches of metal, throbbing in time with the blood in his ears.

He would have gone lunging off the cot, too, if the lizard brain hadn't kicked in, Gear instincts yanking his surroundings sharply into focus.

Familiar sounds.

Familiar scents.

Smoke from the watch fires. The footsteps of the night patrol. Morning frost on the air. Mud and horses and damp boots. The quiet exhalations against his side, a weight resting loosely around his middle, five splotches of warmth fanning out against his chest.

Not his tent.

Not his tent, goddammit.

Taking a deep breath, he willed himself to let the blade sink to the floor and lie back again, waiting for the rush of fury and adrenaline to subside. Panic, near panic. Convinced he was back at the lab. Thinking, with the power of dream omnipotence, that he might be able to change things. Believing even after waking, for just a fraction of a second, that the bastard was right there, that if he was fast enough, he could end it all in a single blow. Finding himself here instead, with the kid cozied up like he trusted Sol not to kill him in his sleep, was a little too much to cope with.

By some miracle, Ky had slept through his bout of murder, not even twitching at the sudden movement when he would usually start, wide awake and combat-ready, at the barest upset of the cot. More tired than he cared admit, even to himself. Not that Sol could blame him.

The forty-seventh division had joined up with them in the small hours of the morning, several battalions short and exhausted, with nothing to show for their efforts except soot-streaked faces, plunging the camp into a flurry of activity and the kid into a string of meetings that were as much about a change in strategy as they were about building up a bunch of demoralized officers.

For his part, Sol had felt that the little underfed deadweight clinging to his neck warranted more immediate attention, fingers wound so tightly in his hair that he was sure he'd have to hack it off to regain use of his windpipe. Better to let someone else deal with it, someone who didn't mind the feel of those tiny bruised fists, paper-skin and paper-bones, nails worn down to nothing from scrabbling at the cave walls for a week, trying to tear their way out. The little girl had been silent all day, refusing food, refusing sleep, pale as a wraith underneath all the dirt, and not budging an inch even when he'd gone clambering over piles of rotting Gears to chase down someone more suited for babysitting. She'd only started crying when the medic began extracting her fingers, and kept bawling down to the last strand.

He'd left for the caves, after that. Better he took care of it before the kid surfaced from reorganizing the troops long enough to take on that burden, as well, and he would, he always did. If Sol could spare him the clean-up of three dozen small bodies sealed up in the mountainside, in some hasty attempt of getting them to safety, then why the hell not.

Simply torching the place made a poor excuse for a pyre, but it was the fastest way, the only way to ensure there'd be nothing left for the scavengers to find. The best way in this crazy goddamn war that had long since given up on digging graves.

It was dark again by the time he finished, not even the blaze able to block out the scents from the caves, blood and piss and fear spelling out three dozen stories, informing him which of the children had gone first, and why, and how. Which of them had died in their sleep, drowsy with the dwindling oxygen, and which had gone more slowly, of thirst or hunger, tearing scraps of fabric from their clothes in place of food.

It should have been easy. Nothing he hadn't done a thousand times before, just blocked it all out and trudged on, the only sensible option. On the plain below, the pit in the center of the former town square had been marked by a cluster of torches to prevent anyone from stumbling to his death, the flame-ringed entrance to the underworld.

_There's a hole in the world… who was it, who said that?_

Nothing to it. Nothing he hadn't known for a long, long time, and thankfully the kid had turned back, decided that saving people and comforting orphans was more important than the sarlacc pit from hell. Sol wasn't sure how he would've held Ky back if their schedule had allowed him to indulge his damnable curiosity. No use pretending the hole wasn't what it was, that the kid hadn't understood its purpose on some level, too damn smart for his own good.

_You don't want to see what's down there. Trust me._

Carpe diem, then. Grab the moment by the throat and disembowel it.

Instead of picking through the ruins, though, his feet had pointed him in the opposite direction, head too full with scent-stories to even notice until he was standing in the middle of the kid's tent, the easiest, stupidest, most natural thing to do. Maybe, if the kid had been a little more distracted or he'd had a little more common sense, he'd have walked out again, but then, Ky had looked up from his maps with that rueful, all too knowing little half-smile, and said, "Hey."

Suddenly, this had seemed like the better option.

_/Weren't we going for sensible choices only? When did you become so goddamn delicate?/_

Comfort. An alien concept, one of those things he'd left behind a lifetime ago, buried with the insufferable jackass who loved his fucking head pats, his coffee at petroleum consistency, the reassurance that he had the world figured out. It had been easy enough to ignore the thought while his head was still crammed and it seemed more important to push away those images, replace them with impressions of Ky's hair, and skin, and taste. Let those fingers work their magic, deft and sure, until his mind had calmed enough to fall asleep.

Like a fucking twelve-step program. Step one, blow up the world. Step two, fail to cope with the consequences. Step three, see about replacing most bodily fluids with something high-proof. After the inevitable failure of step three, move on to screwing a teenager.

Damn if it wasn't working, too. Working so well that he was hiding out here instead of manning up and pushing on, like he had the time to rest, like he had the _right_—

_/Haven't we been here before? Petri dishes, sixteen-year-old kids… amazing how two so disparate things can serve the same purpose, no?/_

Gritting his teeth, he pushed back the blankets, Ky's arm sliding from his waist with no resistance at all. Still a few hours until dawn. Enough time to get down there, sift through the debris, hope that something had remained intact to give him at least a hint, some names, a map, anything that might tell him who could have an interest in employing a race of mole people, what exactly they were after. What it was that could drive the queen bitch to try and erase every last trace of the village that had been its cover. What could have wiped out the Gears, in and around the hole, long before the army ever got there.

"Sol?"

The voice was soft, husky with sleep, and enough to startle him into freezing, like a thief caught leaving the scene of a crime. Slowly, he turned around, shrugging into his coat as he did so, only to find Ky facing him, blue eyes sharp and clear, as if he had been awake for some time.

"Is something the matter?"

Meaning was there an eldritch abomination waiting to burst out of the ground and eat all their horses, and Sol was sure if he so much as gave an indication of a nod, the kid would be out the tent and into battle in five seconds flat.

"Nah. Just gonna have a smoke." He turned towards the exit, securing the straps of his back sheath and picking up his sword. "Maybe do a run of the perimeter, look for things going bump in the night."

The excuse wouldn't even have flown when they'd first met, the kid fresh and green and with way too obvious a chain to yank, but now he could easily take the ensuing pause for what it was, a tailback of two years' worth of questions packed in the moment between the kid letting go of the charge he'd been holding, and the rustling of the sheets as he settled back down.

"…We break camp in four hours. I want us moving before dawn. You—"

"Yeah, yeah," Sol muttered. "Don't bring anything back. Got it."

It was too damn early to muster a swagger, though he could pretend he wasn't doing half-bad as long as he ignored that gaze, its weight burning in the spot between his shoulder blades until the tent flap swung closed behind him.

* * *

The remains of the shutter came loose with a metal shriek, peeling back from the entrance like sandwich wrapping. Carefully, Sol moved to fit his left shoulder through, and decided that if he held his breath, he could probably avoid getting stuck between the wall and a carcass made entirely out of three-foot spikes. A whole host of smaller Gears had apparently not minded risking death via perforated lung in their haste to shove through the gateway, lodged between the spikes like a bunch of insects.

The tunnel ahead lay in darkness, the crunch of gravel underneath his feet a hundred times louder for the lack of any other sound, but what was making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end was the complete lack of any scent, nothing besides stale air and dirt and a lingering hint of acid Gear vomit. After more than a week of bodies merrily rotting away, his brain should have been trying to scramble backwards out of his skull from the stench of death and ass, not straining every last bit of his senses to try and find _something_. Anything to support the carnage spreading out around him.

In the back of his mind, the Gear was coiling restlessly, a bundle of impulses and instincts demanding reality line up with its expectations, demanding he snarl the air into submission like some kind of idiot. Whatever might help to take the edge off. It didn't have a mode beyond threat/no threat, certainly not any sort of standard response to an absolute nothing, but now it was getting to work compiling a third option, the urgent assertion that it _did not want to be here_.

Shoving away the urge to shake the tension from his neck, Sol started off down the tunnel.

After only a few yards, it was clear that whatever had gotten all the Gears in and around the hole had happened even swifter than he'd thought, most of the creatures looking as if they'd simply toppled over in mid-charge, nothing to show for injuries except a couple of superficial burn marks from a firefight.

He'd had ample time to ponder the implications on his way down, sliding and leaping down between the support struts and destroyed transport platforms, only once or twice landing on something that gave beneath his feet and sent him tumbling for a couple of yards. All Order weaponry was point-damage only, designed for that hell's chance of piercing a Gear's hide, and this hadn't been a cannon, or a missile, or even some kind of post-apocalyptic attempt at carpet bombing, this had been something that had hit everything at once, indiscriminately, and it had been fucking fast.

Magic, no question about it, though Sol couldn't for the life of him imagine how. There was nothing, no signs of scar formation, no kind of trail to follow, when it should have been all over, should have turned the kid and at least half the mages in their division into a nauseous mess the second they came anywhere near the fallout zone. Nothing, just a body count to do Oppenheimer proud.

Ahead of him, the tunnel narrowed abruptly, a barricade rising waist-high out of the gloom, twin protrusions jutting out like battering rams. It took him a second to realize that yes, he really was looking at a pair of state-of-the-art gatling guns, their massive rotary barrels cocked at the opening behind him like the world's unfriendliest hello.

Squinting, he climbed up on the barricade, bullet cases rattling under his soles, and grabbed a hold of one of the barrels to tilt it vaguely upwards him. The motion jarred something loose behind it, a shape slumping forward against the handlebars.

The gunner.

Swearing under his breath, Sol slipped to the back of the barricade to inspect the body. A young man, from the looks of it, though it was hard to tell with all the blood, his jugular torn so wide that his head was lolling freely, barely supported by the spine. Tipping the head back, Sol bent down to examine the wound more closely, disturbed to find not a hint of rot — the boy had died before most of the creatures littering the path to the barricade, and yet, whatever had happened had affected him retroactively, suspending all natural processes to preserve him as he'd been at the moment of his death.

Frowning, Sol left the barricade behind and continued on down the tunnel. Part of him wanted some biopsy equipment and an oscilloscope to check for any signs of a spell pattern, but the rest of him knew it was useless to try and apply science to the absolute sensory vacuum kicking his brain into overdrive. Whatever type of magic had done this, it wasn't here anymore.

A little further in, a few more Gears lay clustered in a morbid sort of checkpoint along with four capsized vehicles spilling their passengers every which way. All were wearing the same jumpsuit as the boy from earlier, and all looked exactly the same, too, untouched except for obvious signs of evisceration. The cars had been track-mounted, a cable running along their underside to feed them power, each stocked with an array of magic short-range cannons. With just a glance, he could tell that they were far different from anything the Order or a bunch of Zeppian grease-monkeys had managed to cook up — too refined, heat-resistant alloy, the whole shape adjusted for maximum output with minimum wear-and-tear.

His fingers hit upon the core cartridge at the base, curious to see what else was different, but when the hatch popped, he found himself looking at nothing, an empty slot in the power relay where a chunk of crystal should have been. His frown deepening, Sol started opening the cartridges one after the other, each as intact as the last and shining with emptiness.

_So they… what? Took them out? Who the hell dismantles their guns in the middle of a firefight?_

He would have nearly missed the glint, the barest trace of light flickering from the bottom of one cartridge. Experimentally, he ran his thumb along one socket, the glove coming away covered in a powder as fine as space dust, nearly transparent and able to cling to any surface, no matter how smooth.

Magic waste.

Sol stared hard, trying to will the discovery into making sense. The only thing powerful enough to disintegrate a core was a core explosion, and that tended to take everything in a radius between four feet and several miles with it, depending on the size. These cores, though, had been transmogrified out of existence, leaving behind a perfect void when the whole tunnel should have been teeming with radical, purposeless energy.

After a moment, he shook his head. Speculation was going to get him exactly nowhere.

Leaving the cannon carts behind, he continued on, the tunnel becoming less rock face and more industrial paneling the longer he walked. Bland and unassuming, the exact color scheme common to all research labs he'd ever been to, the kind that had made him retreat as far into his headphones as possible and leave his office in as much disarray as he could, just to be able to think. All these years, and he still couldn't quite get used to the banality of evil, when he'd once been so sure that he could tell anyone's intentions by the tip of their nose.

_/Yeah, you weren't too good at the whole looking in the mirror thing, weren't you?/_

Amazing that he could have ever been this apathetic, interested in nothing but the DNA fragments twining under the electron microscope, that he never thought to see where the money was coming from, never cared about the stone-faced government men with their briefcases walking in and out of the lab, the way the guards in the building suddenly went from four to forty and twice that number in semi-automatics.

CIA. NSA. NBA. Same thing for all he used to care, happy as long as he didn't have to stand in front of a podium and dispense platitudes. Happy to make concessions for the sake of pushing humanity into the next century. Happy with the reassurances, the claps on the shoulder, like a goddamn dog doing tricks, don't worry, Fred, it's just routine, it's not like we'll hand over our best toys. Just let me handle the details. You keep your eyes on the goal.

_Son of a bitch. Is that what you wanted? Did you have all this worked out in your head from the beginning? Or did you think I'd just go along?_

The thought wasn't new, far from it, but that did nothing to dull the shotgun burn in the pit of his stomach. The next blast door barely registered against his knuckles, flying into the deeper darkness as a smoldering sheet of tinfoil.

All those times they'd spent listing the many ways the world was going to shit in comfortable smart-ass indifference, taxes, the oil lobby, terrorism, all the big and small ills scrolling by on the ticker during the evening news. All those years, he'd believed they were on the same wavelength. All those years, the bastard had thought the same.

Ahead, the corridor was opening up into a dome area, heavy artillery positioned around the perimeter for maximum effectiveness. Gears everywhere, too, some taken out in an attempt to rush the bulwark, others crammed partway up the ventilation ducts or swinging from the struts close to the ceiling. Humans strapped into their tanks and huddled behind turrets, some of them still clutching their rifles, a look of intense concentration frozen on their faces. They hadn't even seen it coming.

There one moment, and gone the next. Funny how after so long, he'd come to prefer the carnage to the quiet, felt more at ease picking through a pile of mangled corpses than he did coming into a village only to find everybody gone, poisoned or dragged off into the night without a trace. Turning away from the frozen tableau, Sol set out to follow the one scent that seemed right in this place, the smell of ammonia and latex that a small, perversely Pavlovian part of him had picked up before all else, before the lingering scent of battle, before the lack of death.

It shouldn't have been so easy to find his way around, to proceed through the sterile antechambers and anticipate the blast of filtered air, always a few degrees shy of making his nose go numb, to step through the blast doors and expect to get doused in some kind of disinfecting aerosol. Not his world anymore, and yet it was. As if to make some kind of point, his feet got stuck on the hygienic mat.

Beyond the last door lay a control room, a front of full-length windows looking out onto the lab complex, split into sections by sliding glass walls. It gave the place an air of progress and futurism that the much of the equipment failed to live up to, as hopelessly bulky as if someone had dismantled NASA mission control in 1969 and tried to rebuild it after the apocalypse. As if even the mother of all conspiracies hadn't weathered the technological collapse as well as they would have liked.

So that was why.

Sol smiled darkly, running a hand a long a surveillance console as he walked, an Univac machine with oversized plastic buttons and a slot to feed punch cards into.

That was why they were taking such risks, hiding out in fuck-if-he-knew country instead of places better fortified and better protected. Out of all the hiding holes he'd found so far, each one had been crushed into the ground by Justice with barely a clue left to follow, and although they were just the tip of the iceberg, their loss had to be hurting someone, somewhere.

_No matter how many there are, they're on the clock, too. And that clock's starting to tick down._

One of the exits was stuck half-open, a woman's body lying face down in the doorway. In one hand, she was clutching a print-out of a page-long list of values that meant nothing to him, followed by a graph that had been torn off halfway in her hurry to get the data somewhere. She was wearing a headset, yet at the moment moment of her death, it had been dangling around her neck, loosely, as if she'd abandoned it in favor of shouting…

Sol narrowed his eyes.

A resonance cascade.

He was looking at a resonance cascade, two parallel amplitudes running in rapidly decreasing distance to each other until they achieved a perfect overlap, a thin red curve spelling out disaster. Anyone who understood the least bit about magical harmonics knew that putting two crystals to work on the same thing was at best a gamble, at worst a recipe for instant scar formation, since the danger of the damn things going into synch rose exponentially with size and proximity. It still didn't explain what he had on his hands here; a cascade so big it killed the entire base should have been enough to turn everything in a twenty-mile radius into neat little piles of ash.

Stepping over the body, he took the stairs one flight at a time, driven by an inkling as to what the woman's destination had been.

* * *

The silence in the reactor compound was deafening. Muscles twingeing from the drop down the elevator shaft, Sol stepped off the platform, senses straining against the greater darkness. In the back of his head, the utter lack of sensation had formed into a solid throb that was urging him onward, drawing him in the direction of the reactor tower, as dead as the members of its maintenance squad.

He brushed past a console with a lab technician still sitting upright in his chair, his hands clenched around the circuit breakers, a look of frantic incredulity permanently etched onto his face. Several of the meters had cracked, needles and colored gauges remaining stuck at their uppermost end, and if he'd had any doubts left, the hull portholes had been left open, showing that the large crystal inside the central tube had turned into little more than a memory, vaporized when its magic hit the critical point. What he needed, then, was the second trigger, another device with a crystal at least the size of the reactor core to vibrate at the same frequency.

After circling around the reactor once and finding nothing, he began to follow the coil of pipes and cables leading away from it, each running in a different direction and all with the potential to serve as the connection that had triggered the cascade. Some ended in a cooling unit or a monitoring station, while the majority simply disappeared into the walls and ceiling, snaking off to places unknown. Of course, it was too much to hope that anyone would have left the plans for the electric layout conveniently lying around, and he couldn't afford to lose an entire week crawling through the ventilation ducts in search of anything that looked or felt dangerous enough to house the trigger.

_Or maybe they just stuck it in an experimental sno-cone machine. All of this would be a whole lot easier if we could gauge the scale of megalomaniacal bugfuckery… here…_

Sol stopped dead. There was something there. A sensation he didn't have the words for, the echo of an echo skimming the surface of his mind. At any other time, he would have thought he was hearing things, like the inmate in a soundproof room going crazy from the sound of his own heartbeat — the feeling was too weak and indeterminable to be real, but here, hip-deep in conspiratorial shit, he knew he wasn't imagining it.

The wave came again, and he quickened his step, allowing it to lead him along a pipeline, past a row of computer banks, and to a nondescript door. Ordinary metal, not even the suggestion of a sealing mechanism or insulation, anything that wasn't magic and might help to shield trigger B from trigger A. Either the forces of evil were on a tighter budget than the Order, or…

_Or we're looking at a desperation move._

At a shove, the door swung open, leaving him to stare at something that simply couldn't be.

_What the hell—?_

Crystal, crystal everywhere, growing from the floor and ceiling, blooming haphazardly from every piece of machinery and even stretching out into the empty air, a sea of spires that almost seemed to be reaching for something. Each one was glowing softly, giving off a pale violet light that flickered and waned with an unseen pulse.

Nobody had ever grown a crystal that huge, and with good reason. After a certain size, the mages simply couldn't control the forming process anymore — one tiny mistake, the smallest imperfection, and there wouldn't be anyone left to regret it. This entire hall should have blown up in their faces, long before the crystal had reached its current freakish size, and it was _everywhere_, no pattern, no structure, nothing that could even hope to contain the magic within.

Slowly, cautiously, Sol edged closer to the formation nearest to the doorway, curiosity driving him forward while the Gear's instincts were howling at him to back away from the thing that clearly existed in front of his eyes, but registered as nothing but a blank space to the rest of his senses. Whatever that crystal growth contained, it wasn't magic as he knew it, or he would've gone down from its punch before he ever opened the door.

Up close, he could see that the formation was even more impossible than he'd thought at first. The crystalline structure was more reminiscent of a piece of Swiss cheese, the grid riddled with holes as if air had gotten trapped inside. Either he was looking at the world's worst hackjob, though that was begging the question of why it hadn't killed the entire base a whole lot sooner, or… or what?

Taking a breath, Sol brought the blade of his sword close to one of the needles. He was bracing himself for the shock of magic jumping over, but the crystal didn't even react, just continued its gentle pulsing as if he hadn't just offered its contents the chance leave their damaged cage and force-bond with the nearest available object. With an inward shrug, he moved the sword closer still, until the tip touched the needle with a soft chime.

The reaction was instantaneous — with a shiver, the crystal structure shattered into a hundred tiny splinters, raining to the ground like remnants of a sugar sculpture. Sol blinked, nudging at the shards with one foot. If nothing else, he should have gotten a faceful of magic for that, but the structure was like an empty neon tube, not a single wisp escaping the broken base.

_Well, fuck me._

Narrowing his eyes, he repeated the experiment with a few more needles, watching as they too crumbled like strobes of particularly fragile mood lighting. Not a coincidence, then. All of the formations were empty husks, which was just the icing on the goddamn fucking impossible cake. Magic couldn't just up and leave its crystal without destroying it in the process, which meant it still had to be in there somewhere. Throwing caution into the wind, he began to make his way to the far side of the room where the glow seemed the strongest. An idea was forming in the back of his mind, contrary to all established facts, the part of him that had lived through the end of the world chafing against that indelible nugget that was all science, all the way.

Past a thicket of spires that crumbled when the hem of his coat so much as grazed them lay a cylindrical tube that vaguely reminded him of an incubator. The upper half of the glass was cracked, a host of crystal protrusions jutting out of them as if trying to make a break for freedom. The source of the trouble, though, was a diamond-shaped gem no larger than the span between his thumb and index finger, held fast in a metal support brace. An ordinary core, just barely big enough to power a coffee maker, but the thing that made Sol stop and stare, made him suck in a breath through clenched teeth was its surface, its entire make-up. There was no crystal grid, no solid arrangement, just the impression of the entire stone shifting, _flowing_, like liquid compressed into a solid form.

Bending closer, he caught a glimpse of the cloudy center, tendrils of magic twining every which way. No, not twining. As he watched, they collapsed back into the center in a sudden seizure, the mist thickening, bloating, before expelling its outermost layer, a miniature supernova in the bowels of the Earth. The structure pulsed again, momentarily brightening in a rush of violet, before dimming once more.

Stunned, Sol stepped back, realization settling in his gut.

Dying. The crystallized magic was dying, disintegrating out of existence after it had consumed every last spark of energy it could reach — cores, electricity, _life_, until there weren't even bacteria left to start the process of decay. The resonance cascade had never spread outward; rather, it had worked in reverse, fueling this single core until it began to collapse like a plant choking on its own growth.

Worse than that, though, was the clarity that followed, the stab of awareness that he _knew_ this, knew this fading death trap like the back of his own hand, had spent weeks and months trying to learn the secrets of a pair just like this one, testing them, observing them, until he'd managed to build for them the safest transport cases there could be — and because nothing he did would ever not come back to bite him in the ass, one of them was now strapped to the hip of the sixteen-year-old savior of the world, a beautiful, terrible guardian.

Raking a hand through his hair, Sol turned back towards the doorway. With just a little more time, the crystal chamber would cave in on itself and the army would be far enough away that nobody would even see the outliers of the firestorm melting this complex into so much scrap metal.

In the meantime, he needed to get a computer working.

* * *

Nothing made it quite so easy to take stock of his mistakes as a complex filled with an oppressive amount of past. Sol didn't need a time capsule to remind him, though, was free to pass any moment not spent murdering things by taking a trip down memory lane and picking out all the what ifs, all the should haves, right back to turning down that hot college sophomore who'd wanted him to triangulate her hypothenuse in favor of finishing up his graduate project, three years ahead of schedule.

If the apocalypse had instilled any kind of common sense in him, he would have tried to find a way to destroy those twin crystals, one an exact copy of the other, and both filled to the brim with the promise of a thousand deaths. It wasn't really a question of what the bastard and his new world order wanted them for so much as a question of the when and the where, and at the very least, he could have seen about tossing the cores into an undersea volcano before he'd had the brilliant idea of turning them into weapons for himself.

Sheer arrogance, that's what it was, and as with all his arrogance, it was based on solid science — the knowledge that he was strong enough, indestructible enough, to handle a magic that could cleave the sky in two. Somehow, inexplicably, losing the swords had never factored into it. Neither had getting shot in the face with a ray cannon, and by the time he'd woken up on a carpet of dead Gears, the swords were long gone, picked up by whatever idiot had happened to be poking through the debris at the time.

Nothing to do but to cut his losses and move on. Worst came to worst, he'd take them off the next walking doom fortress whenever it shambled into his path, keep an ear out for any tales of a pair of soul-sucking demon swords. By all rights, it shouldn't have taken as long as it did. He hadn't counted on anyone not using them, certainly not on anyone locking them up inside a lily casket for a hundred years like objects of worship, and perhaps least of all, he'd expected to next see the white sword sprawled across the kid's lap in the middle of the world's biggest mud puddle.

Though it could be argued whether Ky closing his fingers around the hilt was just as surprising.

_/No, no it wasn't, because he's a goddamn walking savior complex and you keep handing him the tools to martyr himself into oblivion./_

With a crack, the instrument console snapped clean in half, sending melted wiring and chipsets raining towards his face. Swearing under his breath, Sol shoved the front half aside and slid over to the next panel to try all over again.

He might not have needed a time capsule to remember, but it certainly wasn't helping him _not_ remember, drawing his attention away from the task at hand with its mere existence. It didn't help that everything felt so goddamn familiar, either, the silicone keyboards, the tang of ozone, the fact that he was lying on his back with his hands elbow-deep in computer innards — funny, wasn't it, how some things never changed? Just like him, never getting any smarter, never just accepting the lesson the universe wanted him to learn.

If he'd been smart, he would've held onto that feeling, those brilliant, timeless few seconds when he'd been convinced he'd managed to kill the kid, completely without the help of the Gears — and then the light had died down, and the kid had still been standing, panting, an expression of breathless wonder on his face, and that was all Sol had been able to take in before Ky had taken off running, straight into the oncoming horde.

A dose of humility that had faded all too quickly when he'd seen Ky dance his way through each and every battle, his aura as fierce and unwavering as it had always been, unchanged, when having the sword overwrite his magic in an instant was the most painless kind of death Sol could have imagined. The Furaiken was too strong, its magic far too violent, and Ky was just a human, a skinny little stick of a human, yet the sword had yielded to him, accepting his power signature so completely that it couldn't be undone.

_/And you thought it was safe, because hell, if he can charm the pants off a fucking sword, there's nothing else that could possibly go wrong, right?/_

Gritting his teeth, Sol managed to slip off the next panelling without ripping the entire console from the wall. More sticky plastic melt, but beyond that, the parts looked like they'd survive the five minutes he needed to glean some useful information. The data, of course, was another matter entirely. Despite the fact that more than half the workstations in the control room looked like they'd been around to witness the birth of the microprocessor, someone hadn't let the end of modern civilization keep him from taking the next step in computing and replacing all the harddrives with a shiny set of data crystals. The theory for it had been around before the war, after all, and Sol could remember the shit cyclone brewing over Silicone Valley in those final few months, the entire industry terrified at the thought of having every data storage in the world become effectively obsolete. Magic was made for the next best thing to eternity, after all.

Now, though, it meant that all he had to work with now was a pile of dust, and the only thing he could hope for was that there was at least one good old-fashioned piece of magnet drive left somewhere in the depths of the system, and, if he wanted to use up all his luck for the next half-century, that the circuit breakers had been able to cut out the worst shock from the cascade.

Switching out the damaged wires, he rolled to his feet again, dragging the cables behind him. For the rest, he preferred to be standing, just to give the Gear one less thing to feel threatened by, being wedged into a tight space. The last time the gloves had come off had been about six weeks ago, and he could already feel certain parts twitching in anticipation, wings seeking to stretch, claws itching to sink into something soft. This would have been a lot less of a problem on a good night's sleep.

Steeling himself, he reached up to unlatch the straps keeping the limiter in its place.

An instant's quiet, as if parts of him couldn't believe their sudden freedom, before the rush snapped through him, fire boiling up in every cell. Placing a steadying hand on the wall, he worked to will the Gear into submission, the rash of scales on his forearms shivering back into his skin one by one. For a minute, he remained standing where he was to allow the flood of sensation to subside, drawing slow breaths to summon a calm he didn't feel. It really was better in battle, where the urgency of the fight shoved the backlash aside for later, and he didn't have to worry about collateral damage.

Pushing back from the wall, he placed the limiter on one of the consoles and set about hooking up its own delicate cables with the secured power cords. There was nowhere near enough time to test each computer on its own, and no way of disconnecting them all without the plans, anyway — even under the best of circumstances, he was expecting at least half the equipment to die a messy death at the surge of unfiltered energy, but he had to take what he could get. Rubbing a hand across the irritating pulse of the Gear mark, he flipped the casing shut and reached for the switch to close the circuit.

_Well, here goes nothing._

A groan, followed by a series of rapid clicks, an acrid smoke rising in the room as the computers shorted out one after the other. Nothing. Sol stood in the darkness, listening to the sound of sparks fizzling in the depths of the instrument banks and debating the chances of a secret lab actually being stupid enough to leave a paper trail, when he noticed a faint gleam in a corner of the room. The machine was quiet, too quiet to be heard over the demise of the others, but as he watched, a monitor came flickering to life, displaying a single line on the black screen.

_{{system_ready}}_

* * *

The first time he'd seen them, they'd been in a tank surrounded by a perfect vacuum, each in its own chamber. Two identical shapes that seemed both liquid and solid, spreading their light around the hall, an impossible amount of power contained within their fragile shells. Wedged inside a ventilation duct, he'd been able to watch the proceedings around them, white coats flitting from station to station, checking readings, adjusting power levels, always careful to give the tank at the center as wide a berth as possible without looking like they were skirting around it. Seven layers of shielding and containment spells, packed so thick he could have punched through them, and the horde of little fuckers was afraid, _still_ afraid of what they had brought into being.

He'd dealt them a blow when he'd taken the crystals. Maybe not enough to fully destroy their project, but as he was watching the column of smoke and fire rising from the ground, the transport case resting heavily against his side, he'd been sure that even if the research had survived somewhere, he'd managed to buy time. Time for himself, for the world, to figure out what these cores could do and how to stop them.

They would try again; something that could sleep in the ground for this long had a wholly different level of patience, and resources to keep trying as many times as it took, for as long as it took. Or at least, that was what he'd thought. The dying crystal in the vaults of this place didn't fit into the picture, too shoddy, too reckless, and there had been something not right about it beyond that, an eerie kind of dissonance that didn't match the steady aura of the Furaiken, resting so close to him for so many nights. That, at least, hadn't been the kid's doing, even though the sword now felt like Ky had shed a part of himself at the foot of the bed; its twin had been the same, radiating a quiet sense of power. By comparison, the thing downstairs felt like the degenerate cousin, a snarl of formulas gone awry, and Sol could almost, almost begin to entertain the notion that maybe the blow had been harder than he could have hoped.

_Are you watching? Did that piss you off? You never could stand it when I was getting in the way of your schedule, you pedantic snotty bastard. So here's to development hell._

A sequence of beeps broke through his dark thoughts, directing his attention back to the computer screen.

_{{Restore process complete. Some files could not be restored. Booting NATARAJA system in safe mode.}}_

Looked like the bastard hadn't lost his penchant for giving poncy names to unimportant shit, either.

A persistent groaning started up in the depths of the computer, the system struggling to access the files resting on some damaged harddrive. A message flashed across the screen, welcoming User 923/2B6 back to the NATARAJA network without even asking for a password, but Sol had no time to spare for derisive thoughts about lab security because a moment later, the entire file tree came cascading across the screen. Hundreds of folders, many of them marked as damaged and non-recoverable, but the one labeled as most recently modified still seemed good to go.

Project O.U.T.R.A.G.E.

Definitely, definitely still loving the poncy names. He clicked on the project log, a massive list of time stamps scrolling by until the cursor came to rest at the bottom. The last batch of entries was dated over a week ago, and as he went rifling through the record, he could feel the transformation wanting to set in again, Gear instincts reacting to his sense of foreboding.

_{{Growth formula still unstable.  
Experiment 0 unresponsive.  
Forceful breach of crystal stasis phase recommended.}}_

And then, dated a few hours later:

_{{Feedback loop established.  
Reactor output stable.  
Funneling magic to Experiment 0 tank at 0.01 µ/s.  
Crystal growth rate increase by 1.5%}}_

Sol didn't really need to continue reading after that, didn't need to see the bright red error messages printed in all-caps, every computer in the facility shrieking warnings at its operator as Gears started crashing against the barriers, the reactor output shooting up to cope with the attack, and then the magic going haywire, consuming everything in its path.

Crystal growth. The fuckwits had been experimenting with crystal growth, trying to get the goddamn things to self-replicate. Teaching the most volatile kind of energy to duplicate its own prison, something it could only be forced into in a days-long effort by a dozen mages. But they had tried, they'd succeeded, and, as an early Christmas bonus, it had killed them all.

With a shake of his head, he reached for the keyboard again. Something was going on here, something that he couldn't yet see or fully understand, but he hadn't believed in coincidences even when he'd still believed in the betterment of the world, not with this sense of unrest that had swept the Order in the past two months, filtering down through the ranks until even the enlisted men were walking on eggshells. Not with the hope that they might finally have a lead on the location of the queen bitch's stronghold. And there was his own odd feeling, too, that nagging sense of familiarity that had little to do with being back in a lab.

Prediction charts. Energy output graphs. Construction plans. Fragments of formulas that had been tested and discarded. Memo to engineers. Memo to floor personnel. Memo to reactor maintenance. Memo to cleaning staff. Memo to the jerk who stole my pudding cup.

Sol stopped, any thoughts at the pettiness of User 923/2B6 vanishing as he stared at the latest file spreading out before him. It was a fairly standard spectrometric analysis, the kind done to record the specific signature of any newly developed crystal, no two cores ever exactly alike. Even the twins he'd recovered had been different, one a mirror of the other, and he would have recognized this pattern anywhere — an exact copy of the way the first one had changed when he'd set it into the base of the fire sword.

_Fucking hell._

That had been the unnerving vibe when he'd stood in the crystal chamber, twisted and buried and weak, but still too similar to the first core not to set off a little warning bell in the depths of his mind.

Claws clacked against the keys, and he exhaled slowly, once again straining for calm. If they were using the Fuenken as a template, he'd just have to find out where they kept the sword, and hope it was neither anywhere within range of the cascade or being used as a means of mass slaughter on the other side of the world.

_/Fat chance. Fat fucking chance, genius. Should've thought of that before improving on their murder tool./_

The file name told him nothing, and neither did the properties, but then his gaze settled on a pale gray stamp in one corner of the image.

The kid had once joked that the Order loved its official crest so much that it was a wonder they hadn't started tattooing it on all their soldiers. He had his own seal ring, a terribly girly piece of jewelry for Commander Candidates that bore a slight modification of the sword and crucifix crest at its center. Ky knew them all by heart, could tell who was writing even before he opened an envelope, just one more bit of ceremonial tackiness that Sol had never bothered to learn. He knew this one, though, knew the trouble it brought all too well, the twin rapiers laid over the cross, two marble pillars framing them. Fidel Defensor, the crest of the inquisitorial division.

He was looking at fucking Order property, the image taken from an official catalogue for objects recovered by the inquisition, complete with a neat little tag and number declaring it an out-of-place artifact. Not even Kliff as acting Commander had the clearance to go through the deeper vaults, or even certain knowledge of how far they spread, how many traps were waiting to poison or burn an intruder to death in the name of the Lord. That was a mystery on par with the Secret Archives in the Vatican, and if they had someone so far up the ladder that they had access to where even the old man couldn't reach, then…

_Then fuck help us all, because all the directives are going through central command._

Closing the file, he continued scanning the contents of the folder, more and more convinced that the amount of effort couldn't have been just for the creation of an oversized gun. If they were desperate enough to track down the Fuenken to complete their data, and foolish or reckless enough to hook up the result to their own reactor, they were on a schedule. Appointment with Death at four.

The next subfolder went by the innocuous name of "field harmonics test," another ordinary procedure, but the spreadsheets inside proved to be anything but. Sol found himself sitting back again as if the distance could provide some perspective, could alter what he was reading so that it no longer seemed thoroughly insane.

A sealing spell was the odd one out in the magic system. It didn't depend on how much power a caster poured into it, but on how many variations he knew, in how many ways he could weave them together. A seal meant to hold a couple of months needed dozens of mages and days to complete, so much effort for something that was, in the end, just a lock that could be opened with the right key, the right spell to undo it all.

_{{Spell modulation output: stable. Spell variance: moderate.  
Seven cores optimum to achieve sufficient seal strength.  
Critical: target must be subdued prior to procedure.}}_

So this was it, then. This was why Justice had hit the compound as hard as she did, why there wasn't a single cornerstone left standing, the closest thing to a display of personal anger he'd ever seen.

Sol raked a hand through his hair, claws snagging on the tangles. Of course, this was it. He wasn't sure why he'd assumed for even a second that it would be anything else, when he'd already seen it so many times. It was never about freedom, or victory, or being safe from threat. Someone was always playing a different game, a tougher, more pragmatic, more ruthless game, and if they hadn't cared about letting the Gears loose on the world, they certainly wouldn't care about ending it. After all those years spent on creating an army that could be controlled with the flip of a switch, of course they'd want to get their switch back.

The noise startled him, a harsh, guttural bark that collided with the tile walls until the entire room was ringing with it, his chest heaving with a dark, soulless kind of humor.

End of the World, the sequel, with the last standing army as the unwitting extras.

He was sure Kliff didn't know. Kliff couldn't know and still be the man he was, so raw and real and full of gentle affection for the children he trained, hurting for every single one that didn't make it back. Hurting over Testament, whom Sol only remembered as a painfully rigid stick-in-the-mud, but whom the old man loved too much to ever return from battle without the loss as sharp and clear as it was on the first day. Sol had never shared his suspicions with Kliff, the idea that whoever had done in Testament must have had help, the kind of technology the world hadn't seen in two centuries, but it was just as well. Kliff already knew why it'd had to be his son.

And Ky, who could stomach damn near everything, bottle up all the wrongs and the infighting until Sol had to prod him into exploding, but if he'd known, he wouldn't have been able to be who he was, either, with his back so straight and his eyes always set on that crazy, distant hope.

Yeah, that'd go over well with both of them. Congratulations on taking a Gear to the face every other Tuesday, you'll help launch the next nightmare. Beautiful.

It would have been easier if he could've been sure they wouldn't believe him, if he could imagine dismissal and arguments about the integrity of the Holy Catholic Church, but he already knew there wouldn't be. Not with Kliff, who'd seen too much and experienced too much not to believe that everything was possible, and especially not with the kid and his amazing capacity for rolling with the punches. The kid would believe him about the Fuenken, too, righteously furious that an important war asset was being withheld, and wouldn't rest until he'd painted a fucking target on himself in a quest to secure the sword for use at the front lines.

_/Let's not forget that this is /your/ goddamn business, and yours alone. If you don't screw it up, they'll never even have to know. What, don't care for the responsibility anymore, Frederick?/_

A crackle told him that he was dangerously close to skewering the numerical set, even though that merciless inner critic was right, had yet to point out a single thing that wasn't true.

The next folder contained a set of blueprints, showing cylindrical containers linked together in varying arrangements, sometimes as few as three, sometimes as many as thirteen. The further down he went, the more streamlined the design became, until it had been reduced to seven cylinders arranged in the shape of a heptaeder. Seven cylinders for seven cores, four labeled complete, one as in-progress, two marked as lost, their project tags flashing erratically.

He clicked.

The first report was dated over a year ago, informing him that OUTRAGE component #1 had resurfaced as OPA-2081, sealed safely inside the high-security tract of the Order vaults. What followed was a list of proposals on how to retrieve it, each eventually dismissed, but what drew his gaze was the staccato of memos concerning OPA-2081.2, dated roughly four weeks after the kid had officially been granted use of the Furaiken.

_{{URGENT.  
OUTRAGE component #2 sighted in possession of KISKE, KY, candidate to the post of Supreme Commander in the Sacred Order of Holy Knights.  
Advise on further procedure.}}_

That was hardly surprising, after the kid had produced a light show visible from two countries away. It hadn't taken long at all for the propaganda machine to work the lightning sword into its very own Joan of Arc story, and by now Sol had heard every possible variation ranging from divine intervention to the kid bringing the sword into being through sheer willpower. Perhaps he would have derived more amusement from the thought of the bastard and his allies seeing their weapon named an instrument of God if he hadn't been able to detect the rising tension behind the words, the scrambling that ensued when they realized the sword had become bound to a fourteen-year-old boy.

_{{URGENT.  
Modification of OUTRAGE component #2 at the hands of KISKE, KY, confirmed.  
Original signature deviation: 100%. Match to signature of KISKE, KY: 100%.  
Process considered irreversible. Advise!}}_

Sol narrowed his eyes. The kid never left the sword out of sight, and he was pretty sure any of the soldiers following his lead would sooner slit their own throats than betray their beloved Commander. The only time the mole freaks could have gotten close enough to check was when the brass had called him back in a frenzy, trying to reclaim the sword, though between the pissed old men in their pompous robes and the pinched inquisitors declaring the sword impossible for anyone else to control, there wasn't exactly a shortage of weasels who could've passed on that information.

_{{Re: URGENT: Specimen K.  
After careful deliberation, it has been decided that retrieval will be postponed indefinitely. Since attempts to study the bonding of OUTRAGE components and human proxies have consistently met with setbacks, it is proposed to concentrate our observations on the only successful proxy. Until further notice, all interference is strictly prohibited in order to ensure authentic conditions.}}_

A project.

The sting of fangs digging into the inside of his mouth brought a measure of clarity, kept him from popping any extra appendages in a bout of incandescent rage that was more the Gear than him, had to be more the Gear than him because it couldn't possibly be a surprise that they were turning the kid into a motherfucking project. Sol wasn't sure why he'd thought he'd be able to see it coming, why, with everything he knew and everything that had happened, he'd ever managed to convince himself that if he just kept his eyes peeled, he'd be able to spot any suspicious activity and, with any luck, spare Kliff the prospect of standing in front of another grave with no body to put in it. As much as he would have liked to blame so much optimism on a bout of temporary insanity, that level of arrogance was almost certainly terminal by now.

_Yeah, we never learn, do we. We never realize that it's always fuck o'clock._

On the screen, the search algorithm was grinding to a close, matches crowding into the tiny result box. Most of them were paperwork that bore Ky's signature, but the further down he got, the more personal it became — the minutes of meetings he'd attended, medals he'd earned, the results of aptitude tests he'd taken as a part of his training as a Candidate, medical records dated age nine, eleven, and fourteen. In short, they'd done everything except breaking into the kid's tent to watch him sleep.

_{{Specimen K Risk Assessment  
Status: rating pending  
Findings: mastery over OUTRAGE component #2 confirmed; reassessment of combat capacities required  
commands extreme loyalty as a soldier and figurehead; loss may prove to have destabilizing effect on military structures  
insubordination confirmed in 57 accounts; strong aversion to civilian casualties may be considered control factor}}_

It was easy, so very easy to imagine that meeting, men in suits bartering the kid's value in an austere corporate boardroom, deciding whether he was worth more alive or dead. Trying to determine what could be used as leverage against him, what kinds of measures would have to be taken if need be, and he could practically hear the conclusion, simple and matter-of-fact, echoing in the stillness of the room—

_"So, what is his weakness?"_

_"…Everything."_

It should have been the worst thing to know that Ky's Achilles heel was something he'd never, ever be able to cover, and in a way, it was almost funny that one of his first impressions of the kid should stay so true — one of these days, that goddamn bleeding heart of his was going to get him killed.

It should have been the worst thing, but it wasn't, because in the next moment, the cursor skipped to the follow-up message, a highlighted priority transmission informing the recipient that Specimen K's risk rating was to be bumped up to "A++". No further elaboration on the matter except for an embedded image, a snapshot taken while its subjects were unaware. Sol couldn't remember the occasion, some victory party or another with enough people milling about to miss the flash of a good old-fashioned piece of blacktech — and the kid, feigning interest in an untouched glass of wine but with his head cocked to listen to whatever inane comment Sol had felt like making at the time, his lips curling in an amused, private smile.

To anyone else, it would have looked like nothing. Just two soldiers engaged in polite conversation, indistinguishable from the rest of the party guests, but Sol could count the number of people who'd been privy to that expression on the fingers of one hand, reserved as it was for those rare, quiet moments when Ky was neither Commander nor savior nor any of the dozen other roles he could slip into so flawlessly, and was smiling only as himself.

And there was simply no way in hell that the association of ass-bastards hadn't figured out the reason.

Sol closed his eyes, the backrest of the chair creaking in protest when he sunk back against it. Out in the midst of the fighting, it was so damn easy to think of the front as an autonomous zone where the rules of engagement were dictated by convenience and common sense, where useless flag poles were chopped up for splints and firewood, knightly celibacy was at best the topic of jokes around the watch fire, and nobody gave a flying fuck about whether a handful of guys rolled out a mat during a very specific time of day and sat on it facing a very specific direction, so long as they could nail a Gear in the head. In a world where even orders could become suggestions at the drop of a hat, any sort of outside control seemed more like a distant inconvenience rather than a tangible threat.

_"No obligations, kid. No protocol. This is between you and me."_

Part of him, the part that really liked to pretend at being a hedonist, had wanted to believe the bit of hypocrisy he'd offered to Ky, and if the Russian lieutenant or the little Irish paperboy were shooting him looks like he was defiling the Virgin Mary, then, well, that was just part of the fun.

But that wasn't it, was it? That hadn't been it in a damn long time. He couldn't even say what had changed, when exactly it became difficult to fall asleep without the kid's feet like blocks of ice against his calves, when exactly five minutes of radio banter in the middle of a mud pit could easily become the highlight of the day.

_/And wasn't it great how he ignored your little secret, let you play at being human for a little while longer?/_

The warm tang of metal barely registered against his tongue, teeth clenching so tightly they were drawing blood. He'd had almost two hundred years to get used to the idea, and more than enough problems on his platter to feel much of a loss, and yet… And yet.

_/Yeah, bullshit. He offered, and you jumped at it, and hey, let's run a tally! Amount of actual bonings versus, oh,_ everything else. _Congratulations, getting your scaly dick between his thighs might just be the best fucking cover story of the century. Hey, if you just don't tell him, he never even has to live with the thought of giving it up for the guy who killed some four billion people./_

Letting out a deep, shuddering breath, Sol straightened, concentrating on strangling the tangle of vicious thoughts that was trying to surge forward, threatening to drag him into a blind, snarling rage against his own stupidity.

He could still fix this. Somewhere along the line, he'd grown careless, veered off his intended course in favor of options that seemed easier or more comfortable than hunting on his own. He'd underestimated the part of himself that was constantly urging for compromises, always trying to latch onto fragments of a past he'd been sure he'd buried long ago. Being surrounded by people who fought and bled the same as he did, with the same drive to live to the next morning, he should have realized it would be harder to keep from getting involved, to remain by himself and just continue doing his own thing. A right mess, of course, but one he could still sort out if he went with the plan.

Rotating his shoulders, Sol closed the file without another glance and called up the search box again, allowing it to get cracking on the location of OUTRAGE component #1. In the resulting stream of information, it was easy to shut off the stupid reflex to consider Kliff, consider the war effort, consider the kid and his goddamn inquisitive gaze, prying his words apart for all the things he didn't say. The first order of business was to get his hands on the Fuenken, and then to take HQ apart piece by piece until he found the assholes who'd approved the plan to seal Justice. And then, well, he had the rest of eternity to hunt down the bastard, and see to it that the explosion would be big enough to end it once and for all.

His life might have gotten off track for a little while, but if he kept his eyes on the goal, things were going to be just fine.

* * *

"Yo!"

The shout was accompanied by the chorus of a bundle of bells above the doorframe, chiming their rust-flecked welcome. No one else took notice, the sound getting lost in the swell of raucous laughter and the clanging of jugs, smoke cushioning its journey across the room. At the bar, Sol hunched further over his drink, not so much because there was any avoiding the inevitable, but because it wouldn't do anything but encourage conversation if he spared even the slightest bit of attention.

Axl had already spotted him, anyway, and Sol didn't need to turn to know that there was a look of breathless elation on his face, the kind that always made Sol think of a slightly challenged Irish setter who was absurdly proud to have found his way to wherever he'd ended up. Even if that happened to be in front of a runaway combine. All things considered, that wasn't so far off the mark, the idiot sticking out like a sore thumb as he stumbled his way to the bar among a lot of whoops and sorries, jostling more than one table full of bounty hunters armed to the teeth.

Sol knocked back the rest of his glass, feeling the brief spike in tension from a nearby table that died down just as quickly when they realized where the idiot was headed.

"Man, that was cruel, boss, ditching me like that."

A part of him wanted to point out that Axl had looked pretty busy trying to get smacked by the girl at the registry office, but it suddenly seemed like too much of an effort. The only thing it would net him was more whining, or a lengthy sales pitch on the idiot's mission to study the female form across the ages, and that wasn't liable to improve his mood in any way.

The "site of heresy" from the noticeboard had turned out to be nothing but the ruins of an age-old car factory, conveyor belts and welding arms rusting gently in the breeze. No decent lead for the last couple of months, not so much as a peep out of Assholes Anonymous, and if he'd been a naive moron he might have assumed he'd got them all. Finally got them all.

The Postwar Administration Bureau. Under different circumstances, he might have found their lack of creativity amusing, certainly thought that Douchecanoes 'R' Us had a better ring to it, if the name didn't so perfectly encapsulate their mode of operation, the absolute, self-understood legitimization of their actions — destroy it, rebuild it, run it. Divide and conquer.

"Hey, you didn't even save me a seat. So mean!"

With a pout, the idiot slipped away only to drag back a stool from the ass-end of the bar, cramming it between Sol's own seat and that of a scar-faced mercenary who looked none too happy at having someone so close to his blind side. The Gear senses momentarily stopped informing Sol that his gin included two percent lye and eight percent dirty glass to bristle at the invasion of his personal space, demanding he snap at the intruder to make him go away. With a small shake of his head, he reached out to pour another shot to give them something more productive to do.

"Bleh, sticky." Axl was wriggling around on his seat like he hadn't been around long enough to figure out that sticky and smelling of hay and horse piss was part of the ambience for drinking establishments of the future, which couldn't be too different from your average back alley London pub.

"Why'd you take off like that, anyway? She seemed interested in you."

Sol wasn't sure which part of him spelled "approachable," but had the feeling the idiot wouldn't be deterred even if he threatened to clock him on the head. "Hn."

"You're such a charmer, boss. I bet if you'd started saying actual words, she'd have been all over you." Axl considered this for a moment. "Then again… Oh, _hello_!"

And just like that, the idiot's entire minuscule attention span was taken up by the arrival of the bar maid, which saved Sol from thinking about how the girl in charge of the bounty registry had been a little too blond and a little too flat not to trigger a bout of morose impulses inside his head.

It was always worse coming off a job, when the adrenaline was still pumping, reminding him of other fights, other victories that hadn't ended with him blowing his paycheck on the completely futile attempt of working up a buzz. He'd underestimated the amazing inconvenience of the lizard brain's capacity to get hung up on patterns that appealed to its primitive nature, stupid little things like having a partner to fight at his side, which satisfied its idea of pack hunting. That was probably half the reason he didn't put up more resistance to the idiot tagging along on a bounty run, even though the Gear had long since determined him to be more of a chew toy than a suitable candidate for adoption.

Five years. Five years of the Gear jumping at shadows and then getting pissed off when they turned out to be just that.

There was a noise in his ear, which meant that Axl had been blown off and was talking to him again.

Biting back a growl, Sol poured another drink.

"—future sucks pretty hard, all my best lines just get dead stares. Though man, I sure learned from the last time I tried to impress a chick with my iPod. Next thing I know, the police are breathing down my neck and I've got to hightail it out of town to get them to stop chasing me."

"Hn," Sol said, not bothering to correct his assumption as to who had been two steps away from arresting his brain-dead Irish setter ass. Axl still found the idea of real-life exorcists and holy knights bizarre; trying to explain to him that the future had both a branch of law fond of flaying and roasting people on the spit for the possession of toaster ovens _and_ a branch of law devoted to bringing peace and harmony and rescuing kittens from trees would probably blow his mind.

_/Not that it doesn't blow yours, on most days./_

He shoved the thought away before it could connect to anything more concrete, keeping half an ear on the idiot in case he suddenly managed to talk himself into a knife to the throat, and turning the rest of his attention towards the tavern at large. Bounty hunters always knew where the money was at, and for the past couple of weeks, it had been with the smuggler caravans, running almost non-stop between the enclaves and whatever dig sites they'd uncovered.

"—swear you'd think they'd hit gold or something, but nope—"

Hushed voices from a table in the far corner, a group of men leaning a bit too closely over the drinks to be having a philosophical debate on the marvels of the universe. Now that he could actually pick out any given sound in a cacophony, it tended to amuse him that people thought whispering was the way to keep a secret, when everything in their body language was betraying them was betraying them at the same time.

"Don't tell me you actually took a look." The voice was accompanied by the scraping of metal on wood, the man lifting his pint for a sip with some gravity.

"Don't tell me you _wouldn't_. I mean, shit, have you seen the paychecks? One thousand, in cash. Per _trip_. Just for the comfort of having a sword nearby. Do it five times and you've got the prize for bagging a large-class, without any of the broken bones."

A brief silence, before another hunter spoke up, his voice laced with the disapproval of an old hand towards an over-eager rookie. "That kinda pay, and they're usually buyin' your silence with it. You get too curious, you wind up with a hatchet to the head."

"But that's what I'm talking about!" The first one again, and he did sound pretty young, out of place in a profession that attracted those who had spent their whole life fighting and felt unable to live without it. "From that, you'd think it'd be something really valuable, right? But here's the kicker: it's all just paper. Each one of those boxes was just full of old writing stuff!"

"So what else is new? Zepp'll buy any old shit."

"For a price that lets them pay a guy one grand just to look big and mean? I'm telling you, there's something going on."

"There's _always_ something going on with them fuckin' grease monkeys. Might as well go around saying the sky's blue."

"But—"

"Here's some free advice: don't go takin' these kinds of jobs if you can't keep mum about 'em. Course, that's only if you mind spending the rest of your days gettin' weird shit shoved up your arse in some Zeppian lab. Ain't ever seen one of 'em, but any place that can breed giants for war is no place I wanna cross…"

Sol tuned out again as the conversation became all about the sons of heresy and error and what they liked to do to prisoners. Something was stirring in Zepp, that was for certain, and between them and the clergy, he wasn't sure whose plots were grown on a more fertile patch of megalomaniacal insanity. It wasn't really a question of who might be scheming against whom, but a matter of who lost it first and hit the kill-everything button. Perfect conditions for the PWAB to chuck a couple of bees in a couple of bonnets and see what developed.

That, at least, was one thing he'd discovered in the five years since the war ended — to the bastard and his friends, it really didn't matter very much which pooch they screwed, as long as the results guaranteed it couldn't be unscrewed.

"—but yeah," Axl's voice cut into his thoughts, "that was pretty freaky, seeing that assembly line full of monsters. Dunno what it is about places where people used to live, but seeing them in ruins always gives me the shivers. You know, skyscrapers and malls and things. Do we still have malls in the future? Eh, either way, you know what I mean."

Sol squinted, not so much to shake off the frown and more in genuine surprise that the idiot wouldn't stop saying words. Anyone else would have taken the hint and found other means of entertaining themselves, but Axl either didn't notice or didn't care, happy to keep chattering at the only other person who could still point out that the local Walmart during Black Friday hadn't looked all that different from a Gear nest.

At some point during his monologue, Axl had apparently managed to squeeze in an order for a pint and was now toying with it, pushing it back and forth between his palms. "Part of it probably is the constant popping in and out. Hi civilization, bye civilization. But it's also like… it all looks so high-tech and sturdy and then you watch them blow up one of those buildings on TV and it needs, like, fifty tons of C-4… you just kind of expect it to last forever. Something like that." He shrugged. "What were we looking for in that car plant, anyway?"

Sol made a face, and resisted pointing out that most people would think to ask before they blithely invited themselves along on a trip that might very well end in disembowelment. "None of your business."

"Ouch, that's cold, boss. Real cold. I'm not the most constant guy, if you know what I mean, but I wanna help you out. I could keep an eye out, and things," Axl said, waving his hand to illustrate. At Sol's pointed look, he grinned brightly. "Sure you need help, boss. If nothing else, someone's gotta remind you how to loosen up a little. I swear that scowl of yours hasn't budged in all those years I've known you. Plus, you suck at pulling chicks."

With a snort, Sol refilled his glass, turning back towards the bar. One more connection he'd allowed to happen in the spur of a moment, mostly because letting the idiot get eaten would've been like abandoning a particularly helpless pet on the train tracks, and yet another thing that was well on its way to biting him in the ass. The idea of the idiot helping with anything was pretty non-threatening in its own way, but lately, that knowing grin had been making an appearance more often, Axl under some kind of delusion that he was starting to figure Sol out.

_/Yeah, because that's so hard, between your angry face and… your angry face. Maybe it's time to start looking into a new technique for scaring off all human contact, like, I don't know, just _not talking to people—/

His internal slap-fight was interrupted by the tavern door flying open with such force that the mercenaries seated nearest to the entrance instinctively went for their weapons. On the step, a scrawny little girl was doubled over, hands on her knees, panting in time with the erratic jingling of the bells.

Sol recognized the look instantly, had seen it a hundred times on kids just as young as her — too young to hold a sword, but not too young to run. Axl was shooting him questioning glances, but was kept from asking by the sudden shift of tension in the room, combat-readiness morphing into something else entirely, backs straightening and shoulders squaring as more patrons caught sight of the girl's uniform, the last vestiges of a light green collar peeking through a layer of dirt and sweat. It might have been possible to take the soldier out of the army, but nothing could manage to take the army out of the soldier.

"E-emergency— dispatch— from Luin! Zepp wants to— Zepp has—!"

Her voice gave out, lungs still trying to catch up with the rest of her body, just long enough for Sol's brain to go through each of the six million things liable to make either the Church or the Laputanians lose their collective shit. Murmurs began rising from the tables as the silence continued to stretch, several hunters shifting uneasily at the mention of that name.

"What? What's going on?"

"Out with it, girl!"

Flinching, the courier tried to pull herself together enough to recite the message. "Nine— nine days ago— the United Flotillas of Zepp launched an— an assassination attempt on f-former High Commander Kiske, who by His divine grace ended the Holy War—"

Her voice went under again, this time buried under a wave of shock and denial as hunters began rising from their seats — impossible, unthinkable, those cowards wouldn't dare, the Commander couldn't be dead, the news was fake, the message was fake, the girl was a fraud—

"…Boss?"

Dimly, Sol was aware that Axl had tilted his stool to whisper at him, but found he couldn't spare the attention to tell him to shut up. During the Crusades, he'd been there to watch Kliff bust more than a few heads for false reporting and fear-mongering, and later, had set fire to his own fair share of notice boards and town criers' podiums to stifle some of the more ridiculous rumors. Every major battle was guaranteed to have at least one idiot to proclaim the savior of humanity gravely wounded or dying, just to follow up with a tale of miraculous recovery a short while later. Nothing like a bit of soap opera to spice up the collective struggle for survival.

Nothing, one panicked little courier meant _nothing_ except an excellent pretext for war.

Around him, the patrons were well on its way to working itself into a frenzy, yelling and hollering arguments for or against the possibility that the girl was telling the truth. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Axl reaching for his chain-sickle. "Boss, shouldn't we, uh…?"

"Keep it in your pants," Sol growled, darting a meaningful glance towards the man on their right, who had also noticed the idiot's move and was placing one hand on the hilt of his dagger.

"But—"

With a huff, Sol slid off his seat. Whoever had described Irish setters as highly perceptive had obviously never met this one.

The courier let out a shriek when she was lifted up by the scruff of her neck and deposited between the bar and Sol's piercing stare, out of the reach of one particularly hasty moron who'd looked ready to grab the child and shake the truth out of her.

"Alright. What about him."

"S-sir?"

The more he looked at her, the more apparent it became that someone had simply stuffed the girl in a runner's uniform, told her what to say and sent her off to deliver the news of the end times. "The Commander. What about him."

"I-I don't know, sir." She sounded ready to cry, struggling to extract an official-looking scroll of parchment from a pouch on her belt. "They gave me this, but… but I can't read!"

Whoever had written the missive had obviously meant for it to be read aloud, the words slanting across the page with an orator's flair, stirring up all the great emotions that were the ingredients to a successful call to arms, grief, outrage, the desire for revenge. An affront against the goodwill of the Church. A mockery of the values of the Holy Order. A grievous violation of all those who believed in the Chosen. Not a word on whether Ky was alive or dead, and with any other piece of writing, he would taken pleasure in picking apart its vague accusations and tearjerker feel to reveal the manipulations at work, but not now. Not here.

War machines in the image of the Savior. War machines that had gone out of control, turning their heretic arts on the innocent onlookers, and damn if he needed to read any further than that, if he couldn't imagine perfectly what had gone down from there on out, just because he knew the kid, and whoever had approved motherfucking robot clones of the kid obviously knew him too, knew that Ky would throw himself in the path of a nuclear warhead if he thought it would save even one life.

Sol closed his eyes against the mounting chill crawling upwards from his gut, his insides slowly filling up with liquid nitrogen.

_Project K._

He'd thought removing himself from the equation would be enough. Somehow, stupidly, he'd thought it'd be enough. Somehow, stupidly, he'd also thought the kid would convert his sword into a mantlepiece ornament, settle down at the French Riviera, start a family, and spend the rest of his life breeding horses or something similarly mundane. Anything to make himself less visible, less appealing, less likely to get caught up in any power games. Anything to shrink the target Sol had stuck on him, bigger and framed with more blinking neon arrows than Ky could've ever managed on his own.

_But why like this? Why now?_

At the moment, the only thing he could be sure of was that this hadn't been an assassination attempt. The kid was too valuable to kill, had been way more inconvenient when he'd still held the official power to tell two thirds of the world what to do, and this was too complicated, too public, too controlled, and too absolutely bugfuck insane to be about something so simple as taking out a single man.

_No, this was their calling card. This was them getting out the poking stick to see what he'll do. This was them making sure he'd have no choice but to respond._

A yelp from the idiot when Sol shoved both the paper and the courier girl into his arms, before turning to grab his cloak off the seat.

"…Boss? What's going on?"

"Read that to them. Tell them it's bullshit."

"What? But that's crazy! There's a hundred of them and only one of me!"

"Three dozen. You''ll manage." He finished buckling his sword, throwing Axl a sidelong glance. "You need some divine intervention, ask them what they think their beloved Commander would want."

"And that'll help _how_? Hey! Heyyy where are you going?"

"Out."

"Wha—? Wait! I wanna come!" Two sets of footsteps following after him, the little courier scurrying in Axl's shadow.

"No."

"I can help. I'm good at helpi— yeesh!"

Hurling a fireball in a room made almost entirely of plywood and alcohol wasn't liable to do anything but blow up the joint, but the idiot certainly took the threat at face value, backing away until the runner girl was close enough to grab onto the hem of his jacket. Satisfied, Sol closed his fist, extinguishing the flame and turning to leave without paying any heed to the stunned faces of the patrons.

He was almost out the door by the time Axl's voice reached him, carrying an unusual note of sobriety. "Hey, boss? Try not to get in over your head."

Unseen, Sol's lips twitched, curling into a faint, sardonic smirk.

.

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* * *

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-TBC-

Notes: This is the part where I drag myself up to the podium and wheeze out an apology for not updating this story in so long. Seriously, this shouldn't have taken as long as it did. It's my final year in the PhD program, so a lot of stuff is demanding my attention, but suffice it to say, I've got no intention of putting this story on hiatus. Anyway, C&C is much appreciated. _Notes for the bored:_  
- Yeah, I'm not going to give That Man a name. He's been "That Man" for so long, it'd be weird as hell to just call him Max or something. Max, Destroyer of Worlds.  
- Bullshitting about everything magic-related. Bullshitting so hard.  
- Yeah, no, none of that "Sol invented the OUTRAGE" stuff. Backstory's way too convoluted and vague on that thing, anyway.  
- Changed Ky's risk rating. Seriously, a B? With the influence he has and the pissed-off Gears people he knows? XD


	17. Chapter 13

**Title:** Going off the Record  
**Part:** 13/?  
**Fandom:** Guilty Gear  
**Pairing:** Sol/Ky  
**Rating:** R  
**Contains:** Alternate timeline, boom, stabbity.

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**Going off the Record**  
_Chapter XIII_

_.  
_

_Let's go out… let's go out into the world with our heads held high, and grasp our future…_

The saying had been Lacie's, the words with which she met the day and the key to her good cheer. A promise to herself, and to them, to aim for something higher, something a little better than what they could expect to receive. A reminder that she whispered fiercely to Lara underneath their shared blanket, with the scraps of airship designs spread between them. A small defiance hissed at their father's retreating back, and a gentle admonition, accompanied by a hand lifting up Lara's chin whenever she would shrink into herself.

_Let's go out…_

It was the sort of thing Lara had been expected to agree with, to smile and say, "Yeah, let's!" in accordance with some unspoken law between sisters, even though she'd never quite managed to put her heart into it. She'd been convinced it was better to hunker down and take what they were given, rather than incur their father's wrath, their mother's disappointment or the vengeance of their older brothers.

Lacie would say it anyway, and roll up her sleeves, starting any of a hundred arguments anew — getting a cut of the shop's profits the way their brothers did, keeping Lara in school, keeping Lara out of the hauling business, finding Lara an apprenticeship — though each of them ended the same way. All Lara could do was to press a cold washcloth against Lacie's swollen cheek after every fight, to smile and agree when Lacie would whisper the promise to her again not five minutes later.

_…with our heads held high…_

Someday, she'd be able to do it, she'd promised herself that. Someday, when she was just a little older, a little more knowledgeable, when she possessed just a little more credit among her peers, she'd be able to carry herself with pride, sure that she'd earned her place in the world. Lara had gone through life on the certainty of that belief, and if the feeling failed to settle when she watched her fighters roll out of Zepp's aerodromes, when she was given a warm handshake and a gold-star recommendation for her next prospective employment, even when she'd bought the Rim-side apartment that was housed in a real building, built by a real architect — if pride still wouldn't come after this, well, then she just hadn't reached the break-even point yet. A conviction that held up right until the moment she'd been forced to look Ky Kiske in the eye.

It wasn't even him, not entirely — it was his gaze, calm and unfaltering, and the thousand gazes behind it, of all the people that served him, all those that had pinned their hopes on him. Nothing in Zepp was quite that good at teaching humility. She'd built ships, and guns, and missile systems, all the things the city needed to protect itself from the Gears, but she'd never thought about it in terms of responsibility. Responsibility for the young pilot strapped into her cockpit, for the gunman cowering behind her turret, the engineer crawling around in the maintenance tunnels of her ship. Responsibility for the people she passed by on the street, on her way to and from work, who all depended on her to make her weapons as safe and strong as they could possibly be.

Lara had always wanted power, to be the master of her own fate, and now she could admit that it had made her feel powerful to build those robots, that a small, ugly part of herself had felt a thrill every time she entered a command and saw it executed to perfection. Flawless, reliable, and in that, utterly not human. She hadn't ever thought of this as a responsibility, hadn't understood the burden she was taking on in the slightest — but Captain Kiske understood, and that was why he carried himself with that quiet solemnity, not proud but aware of what was riding on his every decision.

The revolver was Lacie's, part of the standard equipment given to each pilot in training, and though she'd joked about pistol-whipping Gears with it, there'd been no denying the real reason for handing the pilots such a useless little thing, not when the chamber ever only held one bullet.

It would to hold a full six now, lined up neatly on the coffee table as Lara rubbed an oil-stained rag along the barrel to get rid of the years of disuse. Cleaning the gun was easy and familiar, taking apart and reassembling a machine, even though all she had to show for shooting skills was a bit of target practice on back-alley trash cans. Ridiculous to think that the gun would be of any use to her at all, that if she was caught, she'd be able to yank it from its holster and shoot any of the dozen gunmen on patrol, or that it would accomplish anything.

A new bid for power, in the middle of her living room.

But then, it didn't feel like hers anymore, did it? Instead, it felt like coming back to a stranger's place, someone who wore the same clothes and ate the same food, who kicked off her shoes in the same corner as she did and was always too tired to pull back the covers.

Maybe, Lara thought, she should have felt worse about it, some sense of loss at the way she'd managed to upend her own life, but she was glad that she didn't. It meant that she could slip the bullets into place one by one and not question the insanity of what she was about to attempt, running counter to every single principle she used to live by. Keep your head down, stay quiet, and you'll weather any storm.

Heroism was the path of fools and bright-eyed idealists like her sister, worse than fools because they were willing to risk everything for what they believed in. Lacie hadn't wanted to die, and yet Lara couldn't imagine her final moments as anything other than glad, relieved that she'd managed to keep Zepp safe for her little sister for one more day.

Reaching up, Lara brushed the hair out of her face, ignoring the smear of grease her fingers left against her temple.

She wasn't even sure what she was going to do once she found what she was looking for. If she found what she was looking for. Tell Captain Kiske, who was already going toe to toe with the vipers of the clergy? Inform the council, which was a snake pit unto itself? And that, of course, was assuming Meirth _didn't_ receive his orders directly from the council, that the project hadn't been signed and sealed by the president himself. And who was going to believe her, an accomplice, and someone who'd _made contact_, who showed such obvious sympathy for the people on the ground?

No Zeppian took so great a risk for something as simple as clearing their conscience. If they didn't label her a traitor outright, could they even understand? She could hardly understand it herself, this need to do something, to do the right thing. Zeppians didn't believe in the right thing, either — there was no right thing, only sides and perspectives. The right thing existed only on the ground, to stand in opposition against everything that _wasn't_ right, and perhaps she'd been contaminated after all, lured in by the young captain's thoughtfulness and generosity. Or maybe she was just her sister's sister, sibling to the greatest little fool in Zepp.

Carefully, Lara weighed the gun in her palm, and gave the chamber a spin. This time, she was going to hold her head high.

* * *

The gate ground shut with a low rattling sound, the surrounding wire mesh shivering with the reverberations. On the other side lay the industrial district, the day's smoke and vapors slowly dispersing in the pale light of the street lamps. Ahead lay only the darkened landing pad, and beyond that, the polished front of the laboratory complex where she had spent the past eight years of her life.

A gust of wind came tumbling down the side of the building, and Lara took a deep breath as it swept past her, tugging at her hair and coat. Pushing at her, guiding her in the opposite direction. Back down the street. Back towards the home that felt like a stranger's. Against the small of her back, she could feel the cool leather weight of the holster, unfamiliar and steadying.

She could do this.

It was too late, anyway, too late to turn back even if she'd wanted to. Her access code was already in the system, the opening of the front gate on file, and past the sliding doors up ahead, the front desk security guard was waiting for her to step inside.

_The fool's path it is._

The lobby was empty at this time of night, the lights dimmed to cast rectangular shadows across the floor, the polished flagstone swallowing her footsteps with barely a sound. No heels this time, no need to make herself taller than she was.

The guard tapped his hat in greeting. "Working late, ma'am?"

"Yes. I'm afraid it's going to be another all-nighter." It came out more naturally than she'd thought, even held a bit of the levity that fit a complaint about work, when she'd been so sure she'd have to serve up a half-transparent lie about having forgotten her notes in her office.

Officially, it was a vacation, an impersonal message on her communicator that managed to sound insincere even though it was only two sentences long. She'd expected it, of course, but it still stung to see the notice not five minutes after she'd stepped off the airship, to have the realization settle in her gut that it had all been planned — maybe not like this, and maybe not so soon, but if she'd ever needed proof that Meirth had hired her and all her credentials for mere grunt work, well, now she had it in black and white.

Lara managed an apologetic smile as she handed over her ID card, trying not to look like she was expecting the scanner to refuse it, and glad that the counter was high enough that she could keep her eyes from straying to the semi-automatic at the guard's hip, something she'd scarcely noticed or cared about before.

"They never let you catch a break, do they?" the guard said, slowly dragging her card through the scanner and waiting for its light to turn green.

"I'm sorry?"

"Didn't you just get back from some kind of… event or something? Dr. Meirth seemed pretty pleased with the way things were going, so I thought maybe you could afford to take it easy for a while." Her displeasure must have shown on her face, because he dropped his gaze and cleared his throat. "Not that it's… any of my business, ma'am. My apologies. Um, if you'll just sign here…"

He slid a clipboard towards her, remembered a bit belatedly to include a pen. Lara risked a look at his face as she put down all the necessary information, date, time, security clearance code, the way his tongue was running along his front teeth behind closed lips, back and forth in small, involuntary jerks.

She'd never paid enough attention to the security personnel before, stern and silent in their dark, nondescript uniforms, glancing at her and the rest of the team from the corners of their eyes when they passed them in the hallways. In some ways, they'd felt like part of the furnishings, parts of a big, disinterested machine moving in synch, rarely showing emotion, rarely talking. Part of the package of what it meant to be the engineer in a project that was going to take humanity the next big step forward, but now, Lara was forced to consider that they knew as little as she did, and were being paid not to think about what was going on right in front of them.

In a way, it made her feel both better and worse.

"Don't worry about it," Lara said as she slid the signed form back to him, taken slightly aback by the expression of sheer relief on his face as he ushered her past the checkpoint. She walked on towards the entrance to the lab, grateful that he seemed preoccupied with his own blunder instead of scrutinizing her more closely, and allowed herself a small sigh as the doors hissed closed behind her.

The lab was actually a host of halls and rooms spread out across several floors, test chambers, assembly rooms, hydraulics, electronics, firing ranges, the best and most generous equipment she'd ever seen out of any place she'd worked at, and just as many things that she hadn't. Machines her team had to learn how to use from scratch, devices from before the Great Collapse that she'd only read about in tattered works of history.

It should have made her wonder more why the government was willing to throw so much state-of-the-art technology at a project that had been, for the longest time, a hazy pipe dream even for her. Just getting the robots to move, just getting them to perform a single task with perfection was almost more than she and her team could have hoped for, and yet, they'd never been wanting for money or supplies, when even the big, reliable projects she'd worked on in the past had to go groveling for funding every couple of months.

At the end of the main corridor lay the morgue, the place where failed components and prototypes were brought for analysis and record-keeping. It was Gaus's domain, really, the playground of a fifty-year-old boy, data cables snaking all over the floor and dangling from the ceiling, power tools and discarded parts piling up on racks and in closets because Gaus could never throw anything away.

Between the screens and instruments, every spare bit of wall was plastered with samples of his prized collection, a vinyl-sealed homage to the great engineering feats of the past. Splotches of color in a crammed facility painted entirely in gunmetal gray, flame-painted, v-helmeted fortresses as tall as buildings, though now, she found the fiery swaths cut by their weapons far less intriguing than she once had.

After a moment's hesitation, she reached for the keypad against the wall, locking the door.

On the center autopsy table, the remains of the six robots had been spread out, grouped according to their model number insofar as it was possible to tell. Limbs and launch tubes and thruster systems, blackened and half-melted, and Lara ruthlessly squashed the surge of dismay, some part of her still ready to indulge a bout of wounded pride.

Time to find out what had gone wrong, why her shutdown commands had been refused.

Lara flicked on the power, the surface of the table lighting up with the pale green glow of the grid. Freeing a chair from its load, she pulled it up to the instrument bank along the wall, drumming her fingers as she waited for the system to load. Whether he'd meant to or not, Captain Kiske had taken out their primary means of reconstructing the accident when he shorted out the monitoring equipment. She'd had time, though, more than enough time to organize her memories, to separate herself from them and retrace the events without fear or nausea, from the moment that brilliant blue flare had eclipsed everything.

No room for justifications, for convincing herself that she'd been on top of everything, that the preparations had been perfect, not when her creations had gone rogue and launched an attack pattern that didn't exist within their programming.

With a soft hum, the row of screens brightened.

_{{Welcome to NATARAJA.}}_

Pushing her bangs out of her eyes, Lara grabbed the coils of uplink cables from the underside of the console, guiding them back to the table.

Out of the six black boxes, only two had survived, and even there, she couldn't be sure whether the storm of magic hadn't destroyed any chance of recovering the data. If worst came to worst, she would have to work with the original template, and any tampering would have had to occur between the final batch of tests in Zepp and the incident in Paris.

_/Yes, because there's no way the great Dr. Kahren would ever mess up./_

Lara gritted her teeth and set about hooking up the black boxes.

_He knew. The bastard_ knew _something would happen._

There was no reply from her inner critics, and in a way, that was worse than the direct accusation — she couldn't be sure, not one hundred percent, that it wasn't her mistake. All she could be certain of was that Meirth had known something, and had simply chosen not to say anything because that was apparently the kind of man he was, the kind of support he had. In the end, it didn't matter anyway because she had put the damn things together. She had made them real.

A quiet hiss startled her from her thoughts.

Perhaps it was because she'd expected alarms, the pounding of half a dozen steel-toed boots or something similarly dramatic, that it took her a second too long to recognize it as the sound of the morgue door opening. The sound of the _locked_ door opening.

Stupid, stupid to believe she'd be able to pull this off, that Meirth with his insufferable ability to read people wouldn't have foreseen this, and Lara knew, even as she whirled, that the guards would grab her before she had a chance to aim—

"Guys, guys, I got… it…"

The lanky figure in the doorway paused, eyes going wide as he noticed the barrel of her gun, pointing a good couple of inches above his head.

For a moment, they both stood in silence, long enough for her mind to stop racing through a hundred different what-if scenarios and register the garish shirt, the silly backwards cap and the youthful face, gaping open-mouthed.

"Um," Miren managed, "hi, ma'am. Um. Surprise?"

"You—" Lara dropped her arm, relief hitting her in the gut like the recoil from a grenade launcher. "Miren, what— what on Earth are you doing here?!"

Miren grinned, all at once full of teenage mischief now that the gun was out of the picture. "We wanted to talk to you, ma'am, but you weren't home… and, no offense, ma'am, but there's not too many places you'd go, so I said we should just follow you."

"You…" Lara shook her head, face threatening to break into a smile in spite of herself.

"Well, okay, Gaus said we should just follow you. But I helped. Lots."

"Wait a minute, Gaus?"

Still grinning, Miren rocked back on his heels to lean out into the hallway. "Guys, you can stop looking for a box-end wrench. I've got it."

There was a shuffle in the corridor, leaving Lara just enough time to stuff the gun back into its holster before Miren was shoved forward, allowing the rest of the team to crowd into the room and Lara's bearings to skitter even further out of her grasp.

"Black box still working?" Gaus asked, ducking past her to get a good look at the parts they hadn't been allowed to touch since loading them onto the ship.

"Not sure," Lara said automatically, too used to the electric eagerness that now filled the room as if it were just another busy workday, just another nut to crack. "I was going to run an endurance test first, but—"

Then, she caught herself, straightening and surveying the dozen expectant faces. "Hold on a moment. This is crazy. You shouldn't be here. None of you should be here."

Gaus glanced up from his inspection of the black boxes. "Getting right down to it, Chief, neither should you."

"I'm here because this is my responsibility. I need to know what happened, for my own peace of mind if nothing else."

A laugh from Anis, hoarse and tired. "Shit, ma'am, you expect us to go sleep off blowing up their archangel or whatever they call him? If we're talking about responsibility, then each of us is in just as deep as the other."

Lara frowned, uncertain whether she should find this encouraging coming from Anis, who had always been the first to blow off any mention of team spirit, cool-headed and driven and entirely too pragmatic to consider pretending to be colleagues when they were certain to meet again as rivals for future positions.

"C'mon, Chief." Miren again, his voice just one note shy of a whine. "Besides, it'd be pretty cruel to go to all the trouble of breaking in only to have you kick us out."

She looked at him sharply. "I won't even ask why you would—"

"Well, we figured it'd be kind of suspicious if we all marched in by the front door, and since I know a guy who knows a guy who owes me a favor…" He held up his hand, dangling a security keycard and grinning like a loon. "…here we are."

Shaking her head, Lara turned away. Another facet of that newfound wish to do right that she wasn't sure she liked, the idea that she was responsible for more than quality control and meeting deadlines, and whatever she decided now might drag everyone else down with her.

"…Alright. Let's get to work."

* * *

It was a cold morning the day the great swarm came. It would go down in the annals as drab and gray, to match the records of battles fought by their ancestors, but it had been clear enough to see for miles. The cloud cover lay far below, blanketing the ground, enough to believe Zepp to be the only thing of consequence, enough to think the world at peace.

Later, it would become a point of criticism, the very thing that had allowed things to get as bad as they got. Word on the street was that the only reason the city had gone that high was because the council didn't feel like approving the funds to deal with the snow, that the air patrol had been understaffed, that they had become complacent about maintaining the network of detection buoys because Zepp hadn't seen a serious fight in over three months, only minor skirmishes.

As with so many things, it was a half-truth, made up of equal parts true failings and angry accusations, blame that gave the illusion of control — if only their leaders hadn't been so short-sighted, if only everyone had been doing their jobs, even the swarm would have stood no chance against Zepp's military might. It was easier than considering that the Gears might be getting smarter, better, that some new type of magic or armor might allow them to avoid detection until it was too late.

It was pure chaos when the shields fell. Fire, and running and screaming, people clogging up the aerodromes in their desperate search for shelter, grounding the reinforcements. Gears dropping from the sky to land on top of the fleeing masses, or hurling themselves into buildings like six-hundred pound warheads, the gases within their bodies erupting upon impact. Skyscrapers fracturing, splintering like plywood, until the city seemed a row of dominoes, towers collapsing against one another one by one.

Valenzio Ghor had a front-row seat to watch his city burn.

Nineteen years old and harnessed into a fighter jet with Gears swarming all around him, and every time he spun the aircraft, the sickening roll would reveal a new angle of Zepp engulfed in a sea of flame. Later, the pilots received their share of the blame for giving the Gears an opening, the chance to go for the outer floatation ring. A reprimand delivered by crisp clean suits who could observe anything from the comfortable distance of a command center. Silver-tongued analysts who'd never sat behind a stick, fingers jerking on the trigger in a desperate, impotent rage as salvo after salvo glanced off a megadeath's wings.

The outer floatation ring hadn't been an accident, not with the giant dragonflies going directly for it, but it didn't matter what he'd seen or done to prevent it, and certainly not to the strategists in the council, who were all assembled under the command of one man. A man who sat there, stone-faced and impervious, who didn't ask or apologize or offer restitution but simply signed the proposal when the reading had ended.

The election of a sacrifice.

The loss of one ring out of three wasn't enough to cripple Zepp, but it was enough to send it heeling, leaning like a ship with a broken mast. The outer ring wasn't fully gone, just damaged enough to shift the weight of the landmass and send the city tilting a little bit further every day — 0.01, 0.023, until gravity would start tearing the main plate in two.

Repairs were a costly gamble that would require time and more luck than could be found in the back room of a rim-side casino. Nobody in Zepp had any idea how to go about trying, or what even kept the rings bearing several hundred times their own weight, yet another secret lost to the ages.

His had been the only voice in favor of trying, a nineteen-year-old head of house in a room full of old men, with none of the respect his father had once commanded.

Of course, everyone else would vote for the purge. Of course, they would discard Zepp's future.

The corona had been a construction project spearheaded by the House of Ghor, his father's lifelong dream, a massive steel-strobed band of wind turbines stretching along the entirety of Zepp's shield dome, enough to power an additional shield and supply every single household with power, right down to the poorest pits in the slums.

All of it, the millions of ducats and resources poured into it, dropped by a single signature down into the northern seas. Only a fool would believe that this wasn't why the council vote had needed no debate, or that President Gabriel hadn't been swayed by the idea of dealing a blow to his oldest and most powerful rival.

Valenzio Ghor was no fool.

He had worked, and fought, and scrounged, and quietly dismissed the humiliation from his thoughts, but he had never forgotten the cost, the short-sighted ease with which a bunch of scared old men had squandered the chance of a lifetime of peace and prosperity within Zepp's borders. Protection. Renewable energy. An independence from the scarce coal mines they held on the ground. A solution to the problem of Zepp's underbelly, who looted and stole and vandalized for electricity and fuel.

From his office, Ghor had a perfect view of the small ships shuttling back and forth, attaching package after package of explosives. It only took seconds to destroy what had taken decades to build, but even he wasn't prepared for the long, shuddering groan that ran through every tier, the sound of Zepp having its new heart torn from its body.

It was all coming back to bite them in the ass now that they were no longer going through able-bodied fighters faster than their mothers could raise them. Now that the slums were starting to fill up with drifters and joy seekers, outlaws and expatriats from the ground who wouldn't or couldn't pull their weight — no skills, no connections, mostly hoping for a roof over their heads and the fairytale safety of Zepp's fortifications. Now that the ground was on the advance, reclaiming territory, resettling sites Zepp had always used as supply caches.

More than thirty years had passed since the great swarm, and the new president was exactly like the old president, slow and ponderous and a fool, a Gabriel through and through. Ghor could no longer recall when and where he'd first heard the whispers of Isan Gabriel's ideas of approaching the ground for talks, but they had gotten louder and louder during the last ten years of the war.

Alliance. Reconciliation. Support. _Unification_. The words were enough to scare any of Gabriel's supporters into opposition. Under different circumstances, Ghor might have found it amusing to find himself the leading voice of the very men who had maneuvered Zepp into this situation in the first place, might have spared a little pity for Isan, who seemed so determined to ruin his credibility, but there was no getting around the fact that House Gabriel controlled the vast majority of the military, and that Isan, like his father, wasn't afraid to do what he believed had to be done.

_Lupus est homo homini._

Man is a wolf to man. He'd read the phrase in an old tome somewhere, an apt description of the ground crawlers if there ever was one, though Isan wanted to start talks regardless, give up their independence and safety and pride out of some vague, idiotic hope that the answer would be anything but sweet, cleansing fire. As if history had taught him nothing. As if it wasn't the ground that had given them a choice first — death or exile in the name of their so-called Lord.

Even in a best-case scenario, there was simply no way Zepp wouldn't end up with the short end of the stick; even if the Church stopped railing against heathens and devil worshippers overnight, what else could they want but access to Zepp's vaults, its archives, the fruits of nearly two centuries of bone-crushing labor? What Zepp needed wasn't to barter with a bunch of prehistoric partisans who were only waiting for the right moment to usurp all it stood for; what it needed was strength not just to endure, but to triumph, to stand tall as the shining star of future hopes and past glories.

And that was why, when They had approached him, Ghor had been willing to listen.

* * *

The man before him was the same as the last several times, a tall, dark-suited figure with eyes that rarely focused on anything in particular, as if whatever was worth looking at lay far beyond the confines of this office, beyond the airship models lining the walls and the floor-to-ceiling windows, and most certainly beyond his host's face.

He had never volunteered his name and never called ahead of time to make appointments; instead, he simply appeared whenever he would and expected to be accommodated, though he had yet to arrive at a time when he couldn't be. He rarely spoke, no pleasantries, no actual conversation, and no lingering on past events or meetings, only outlining the details of the next step. Always only the next step.

Ghor had to deal with his fair share of snakes and jackals in the council, was even forced to adopt their methods every now and then, but he'd never met a man like this before, someone he couldn't place, someone who was clearly dangerous but only existed as a blank space in his mind, formless and indeterminable.

"This is it, then?"

The man rarely asked questions, too, but now he was leaning forward, examining the brooch inside its protective casket with an interest so keen it made Ghor wish he would go back to gazing past everything, just to avoid that unnatural intensity.

"It's what he had on his person," Ghor replied, sliding the casket towards his visitor.

Picking up the brooch, the man brought it close, and for a moment, Ghor could have sworn his right eye flashed, a circle of light briefly flaring up around the pupil. Then he blinked, and it was gone.

"It's indeed the genuine article," the man said, replacing the brooch and closing the lid. At any other time, Ghor would have taken his words as an insult, an insinuation that he wasn't upholding his end of the contract, but instead, all he felt was relief. Through the lid, the design of the wing-framed tower was winking up at him, and though it had been cleaned of soot and ash, he still couldn't see what made it different from any other house crest. Except, of course, for the fact that it had survived the firefight.

"The other half?"

Ghor frowned. "What do you mean?"

"We believe we explicitly asked for the complete set."

"This is all that was recovered. You're free to look through the list of what was confiscated from the estate, but it's not there," Ghor said, reaching into his desk drawer. "In fact, I believe we've more than fulfilled our part of the deal. If you wanted to search the bodies, perhaps you should have worked on the fine tuning of those things."

The man's lips curled, the expression too faint to name, but Ghor believed it was meant to be a smile. "Don't try to alter the conditions of our agreement. There is nothing in your current arsenal that could even hope to scratch these emblems."

Ghor didn't answer, rifling through his memories of that morning, the way things had gone from a clean-hit mission to an unsalvageable mess in seconds, and all because Isan had to bring the boy along—

He took a breath. "…The boy."

His visitor didn't say anything, merely tilting his head in a silent prompt.

"He brought his son, and the boy tried to escape in the glider—" Ghor shook his head. "Your 'gift' blew that one to pieces."

"The body?"

Ghor stared at him, trying to suppress his rising irritation at the man's impassive tone, as if he were inquiring after a shipment of pan-head screws. "_What_ body? Your robots fired a rocket right into that glider! If there's even anything left, well…" He motioned to the windows and the sheer endless drop beyond. "There are the winds to consider, and even without those, that still leaves several hundred square miles of slum to choose from."

"You will recover it." There was no threat in his voice, not even an order, just a simple statement of fact that left no room for argument.

"_How_."

Without explanation, the man slid the casket back across the desk and rose, not a wrinkle in his suit, no wasted movement as he made his way towards the exit. With his hand already on the doorknob, he paused and turned around, his uncanny gaze fixed directly on Ghor.

"One more thing. We suggest you move swiftly, before others move to handle your politics for you."

* * *

The first thing that came trickling back was the pain. Inch by inch, as if his mind couldn't handle any more and was dividing the sensation into small pieces, all of them congregating, piling up, mounting—

Slowly, Aren opened his eyes, only to be met with total darkness.

For a while, he simply lay still, staring upwards into nothing, or at least what he believed to be upwards, a sense of space barely able to worm its way past the senseless howling of his nerves that kept finding and losing body parts, giving him legs or no legs or three of them from one second to the next.

Despite this, he felt oddly calm, almost peaceful, as if he were lying in bed at home, as if the pain and the darkness around him were nothing at all to be concerned about. He remembered stories, reports of pilots who were pulled from the wreckage of their fighters thinking they could still walk, soldiers who had kept fighting, never realizing the severity of their injury. Symbols of Zeppian bravery, that was how they were sold to the public, but now, Aren was pretty sure they hadn't been much different from him, inhabitants of a body that was beside itself with agony.

The touch against his brow managed to startle him until he realized it was his own hand, groping around on autopilot for the ocular and coming up empty. He let it fall away, still too full of that strange serenity to really care, and a little bit too distracted by the odd emptiness in his chest, as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to his sternum that left his breath whistling inside a hollow cavity somewhere to the left of his lungs. When he touched the place, though, there was nothing, no hole and no protruding bones, just a shirt that made wet suction noises whenever he moved, and a fresh jolt of pain whenever his clumsy fingers happened upon an open wound.

Cuts, lacerations that had already stopped bleeding, probably from when the inside of the glider was rushing towards him in a storm of glass and metal —

He should have been dead.

He should have been a streak of dirt on somebody's rooftop, and thank the sky for Zeppian pragmatism, or else he would have had to worry about whether this was the afterlife, too.

Gingerly, Aren dragged himself upright, unable to suppress a moan when the change in position caused several new spots of pain to bloom along his back. The sound echoed, long and surprisingly loud, and he froze, listening for footsteps or voices.

Nothing.

His free hand hit something, the flat, smooth shape so familiar he was convinced for a moment that his mind was playing tricks on him. If Ghor's men or anyone else had got to him while he was unconscious, they certainly wouldn't have left him with his gun. His fingers curled around the barrel, surprised to find it as whole and straight as always, when the fall should have banged it up beyond repair.

_/Forget the gun. That fall should have banged up /you/ beyond repair. This can't be— this isn't— where /in the blazes/ are we?!_

The slums, it had to be the slums, and yet, it didn't feel like the slums, no smoke, no waste, no heat from the ancient steam engines, no crying children or the clatter from a hundred scrap collectors. Just him and that vast, empty space, smelling of dust and stale air.

He staggered to his feet, the injured ankle throbbing in protest. At least, nobody was around to watch the once-proud heir of Gabriel flail about like an imbecile, and— That was what he was now, wasn't it? The heir of Gabriel in the truest sense of the word, not just the son who would one day carry on his father's legacy but the last surviving member of his house, and who knew for how much longer.

If he even managed to find his way out of here, he knew Ghor too well to expect to find the manor still standing upon his return; after all, if their roles had been reversed, he wouldn't be taking any chances, either. If Ghor played his cards right, he could blame the murders on assassins or terrorists from the ground, point the military towards that distant, hated enemy to keep them occupied.

The only one who couldn't be fooled or threatened into obedience was Potemkin, and all Aren could do right now was hope that the old war hound would know better than to try and make some kind of stand in his father's memory.

_/If they haven't found him out already, you mean. They know you knew of their war machines, how long do you think a spy hunt would take them? He's a soldier, not an agent, you /know/ he'd try to fight—_

Aren cut off the thought. Some sight he'd make, a Gabriel fretting like a despondent child when this day had always been a possibility; there were more than enough Gabriels to look back on, more than enough other heads of house who had left their seats in a manner that was less than dignified, or clean.

Sliding the shotgun into its customary holster, Aren began to straighten himself out in order to give himself some time to untangle his thoughts and formulate a plan, some kind of fighting chance for himself. Trying to make his way to any of the Gabriel estates was nothing short of suicide, though there were a number of smaller safe houses that didn't show up on any official record.

_Unless, of course, Ghor bothered to go through the family vaults after the raid. I would._

Raking a hand through his hair, his fingers caught in a snarl, a thin leather strap entangled with the strands. The ocular.

He tugged it free, pleased to hear it click and whirr when he adjusted its metal frame. That, at least, meant he could start figuring out where he'd landed, and look for a way out. Then, the familiar green glow settled over his right eye, and all thoughts of escape fled from his mind.

All around him, walls of naked rock rose for hundreds of feet, forming a gigantic cavern. Here and there, he could make out parts of a steel rig jutting forward from the stone, beams or grates stretching across the empty space but abruptly ending nowhere. Aren stared, half-wondering if he had managed to fall _into_ Zepp, some undiscovered hole in the surface platform, but no matter how much he craned his neck and adjusted the ocular, he couldn't make out an opening.

He was ready to stop puzzling over it when he noticed a pale haze forming at the edge of his vision.

Frowning, Aren dropped his gaze, and started.

The floor was glowing. All around him, a subdued, misty light was rising in a circle, wafting gently upwards as if borne by a breeze. His first instinct was to cover his mouth and nose, but that was before he noticed the strange light was rising _from_ him, too, passing through the fabric of his clothes with no effort at all.

On the inside of his coat, the small spot was gleaming, tendrils of that same pale light rising from its edges. The crest was twin to his father's, a gift bestowed upon him on his eighteenth birthday to acknowledge him as the heir to House Gabriel. He'd never thought much about it, one of the less conspicuous ways to display familial pride without parading around in hand-embroidered capes.

Carefully, he reached up to rub a thumb across it, jerking away when the motion prompted it to light up like a star. Around him, the glow was becoming stronger, strong enough to see even with the naked eye — threads of light weaving across the circle in the ground, curling, joining and splitting again in an ever more complex pattern, until he finally realized he was looking at a spell.

A spell without a caster.

Aren stumbled backwards, very nearly tripping off what appeared to be a platform in his haste to get away. Spellcraft was a rare enough sight in Zepp, when most of the children who showed an aptitude were immediately conscripted into the production of crystals, and this wasn't anything he recognized, none of the attack magic the Order had been so fond of in the war.

Up on the platform, the spell had stopped forming, the threads hovering aimlessly in the air. On the lapel of his coat, the emblem was still shining brightly, waiting for a command he didn't know. Magic. Magic from a machine in the middle of Zepp, and— had his father known? Was that why he had refused to ever part with his emblem, and demanded Aren do the same? Was this why he had survived?

He closed his eyes, trying to remember the fall, but the howling of the wind drowned out everything else.

When he opened them again, the light from the platform had dimmed, pulsing in a slow, steady beat. The tendrils of light were retreating, revealing a shape in the center of the floor, though it took him a moment to understand what he was seeing.

The ground had opened up into a passageway, a small, dark rectangle in the floor, but what drew Aren's gaze and made his breath catch in his throat was the glowing pattern that had formed around it, a shape as simple as it was impossible.

He was looking at a tower, surrounded by a pair of feathered wings.

.

.

.

-TBC-

* * *

**Notes:**

I was trying to resist naming this chapter "Meanwhile, Near Zahadum..." because really, that's what it is. Many thanks to Twig for being all around amazing. And C&C is always welcome, of course.

- Of course Zepp thinks Gundams and Transformers were an actual thing.  
- Zepp: One part Coruscant, two parts Laputa, and a gigantic clusterfuck of Kowloon.  
- Next time, we're most definitely back with Ky. Finally.


End file.
